Off Sandy Hook And Other Stories

E DEEP SEA . CONTENTS PAGE 1 . 15 . 31 . 44 . 60 . 68 . 81 95 . 107 . 119 . 133 . 143 . 154 . 164 . 180 . 193 . 205 . 219 . 230 . 241 . 264 . 276 . . . 287 . 295 . 308 . 317 OFF SANDY HOOK AND OTHER STORIES OFF SANDY HOOK ON board the Rampatina liner, eleven days and a half out from Liverpool, the usual terriiic sensation created by the appearance of the pilot-yacht prevailed. Necks were craned and toes were trodden on as the steamer slackened speed, and a line dexterously thrown by a blue-jerseyed deck-hand was caught by somebody aboard the yacht. The pilot, not insensible to the fact of his being a personage of note, carefully divested his bearded countenance of all expression as he saluted the Captain, and taking from the deck-stewards obsequiously prof- fered salver a glass containing four-fhgers of neat Bour- bon whisky, concealed its contents about his person with- out perceptible emotion, and went up with the First Officer upon the upper bridge as the relieved skipper plunged below. The telegraphs clicked their message- the leviathan hulk of the liner quivered and began to forge slowly ahead, and an intelligent-looking, thin- lipped, badly-shved young man in a bowler, tweeds, and striped necktie, introduced himself to the Second Officer as an emissary of the Press. Mr. Cyrus K. Pillson, New York Yeller. . . . Pleased to know you, sir, said the Second Officer step into the smoke-room, this way. Bar-steward, a brandy cocktail for me, and you, sir, order whatever you are most in the habit of hoisting. Whisky straight Now, sir, happy to afford you what information I can I presume, observed the young gentleman of the Press, settling himself on the springy morocco cushions and accepting the Second Officers polite offer of a green Havana of the strongest kind, that you have had a smooth passage, considerin the time of year 3 Smooth. . . . The Second Officer carefully re- versed in his reply the Pressmans remark Well, yes, the time of year considered, a smooth passage, I take it, we have had. No fogs interrogated the young gentleman, click- ing the elastic band of a notebook which projected from his breast-pocket. Fogs . . . No said the Second Officer. You didn t chance, pursued the young gentleman of the Press, taking his short drink from the stewards salver and throwing it contemptuously down his throat, to fall in with a berg off the Bank, did you 8 Not a smell of one replied the Second Officer with decision. Ran into a derelict hencoop, perhaps persisted the young gentleman, concealing the worn sole of a wearied boot from the searching glare of the electric light by tucking it underneath him, or an old ladys bonnet- box . . . or a rubber doll some womans baby had lost overboard No 8 he echoed, as the Second Officer shook his head. Then, how in thunder did you manage to lose twenty feet of your port-rail Carried away, said the Second Officer, offering the young Press gentleman a light. No, thanks...