Hungerford showed himself a thorough sailor.
Hanging to the davit, he quietly, reassuringly, gave the order for
righting the boat, virtually taking the command out of the hands of the
first officer, who was trembling with nervousness. Hungerford was right;
this man's days as a sailor were over. The accident from which he had
suffered had broken his nerve, stalwart as he was. But Hungerford was as
cool as if this were ordinary boat-practice. Soon the boat was drawn up
again, and others took the place of those who had disappeared. Then it
was lowered safely, and, with Hungerford erect in the bows, it was pulled
swiftly along the path we had come.
At length, too, the great ship turned round, but not in her tracks. It is
a pleasant fiction that these great steamers are easily managed. They can
go straight ahead, but their huge proportions are not adapted for rapid
movement. However, the work of rescue was begun. Sailors were aloft on
watch, Captain Ascott was on the bridge, sweeping the sea with his glass;
order was restored. But the ship had the feeling of a home from which
some familiar inmate had been taken, to return no more.
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