sweeping from the Gulf of Mexico across to Europe; but the almost
clock-like regularity of the two vibratory movements was what
attracted my attention: it was while watching the side roll that I
first became aware of the list to port. Looking down astern from the
boat-deck or from B deck to the steerage quarters, I often noticed how
the third-class passengers were enjoying every minute of the time: a
most uproarious skipping game of the mixed-double type was the great
favourite, while "in and out and roundabout" went a Scotchman with his
bagpipes playing something that Gilbert says "faintly resembled an
air." Standing aloof from all of them, generally on the raised stern
deck above the "playing field," was a man of about twenty to
twenty-four years of age, well-dressed, always gloved and nicely
groomed, and obviously quite out of place among his fellow-passengers:
he never looked happy all the time. I watched him, and classified him
at hazard as the man who had been a failure in some way at home and
had received the proverbial shilling plus third-class fare to America:
he did not look resolute enough or happy enough to be working out his
own problem. Another interesting man was travelling steerage, but had
placed his wife in the second cabin: he would climb the stairs leading
from the steerage to the second deck and talk affectionately with his
wife across the low gate which separated them. I never saw him after
the collision, but I think his wife was on the Carpathia. Whether they
ever saw each other on the Sunday night is very doubtful: he would not
at first be allowed on the second-class deck, and if he were, the
chances of seeing his wife in the darkness and the crowd would be very
small, indeed. Of all those playing so happily on the steerage deck I
did not recognize many afterwards on the Carpathia.

Coming now to Sunday, the day on which the Titanic struck the iceberg,
it will be interesting, perhaps, to give the day's events in some