them all in the space of a short book: of all those in the library
that Sunday afternoon, I can remember only two or three persons who
found their way to the Carpathia. Looking over this room, with his
back to the library shelves, is the library steward, thin, stooping,
sad-faced, and generally with nothing to do but serve out books; but
this afternoon he is busier than I have ever seen him, serving out
baggage declaration-forms for passengers to fill in. Mine is before me
as I write: "Form for nonresidents in the United States. Steamship
Titanic: No. 31444, D," etc. I had filled it in that afternoon and
slipped it in my pocket-book instead of returning it to the steward.
Before me, too, is a small cardboard square: "White Star Line. R.M.S.
Titanic. 208. This label must be given up when the article is
returned. The property will be deposited in the Purser's safe. The
Company will not be liable to passengers for the loss of money,
jewels, or ornaments, by theft or otherwise, not so deposited." The
"property deposited" in my case was money, placed in an envelope,
sealed, with my name written across the flap, and handed to the
purser; the "label" is my receipt. Along with other similar envelopes
it may be still intact in the safe at the bottom of the sea, but in
all probability it is not, as will be seen presently.

After dinner, Mr. Carter invited all who wished to the saloon, and
with the assistance at the piano of a gentleman who sat at the
purser's table opposite me (a young Scotch engineer going out to join
his brother fruit-farming at the foot of the Rockies), he started some
hundred passengers singing hymns. They were asked to choose whichever
hymn they wished, and with so many to choose, it was impossible for
him to do more than have the greatest favourites sung. As he announced
each hymn, it was evident that he was thoroughly versed in their
history: no hymn was sung but that he gave a short sketch of its