But our hearts
sank as the sounds grew fainter and soon we were alone again with the
wind and fog. The fifth day we heard the whistle of an ocean steamship.
"We can surely head this one off," we thought, but she quickly passed
us, too far away to see or hear. It was a bitter disappointment as this
floating hotel, full of warmth, food, water, shelter and companionship,
for the lack of each and all of which we were perishing, rushed by, so
near, yet unconscious and unheeding, in too great a hurry to stop and
listen to our cry for help. I have thought of this since, as I have
hurried along with the crowd in the street of a great city and wondered,
if we stopped to listen, what cry might come to us out of the deep.
The fifth night the sea was running high. We were drifting with a trawl
tub fastened to the "painter" as a drag to keep the boat headed to the
wind, when it began to rain. I spread my oil jacket to catch the water,
and we waited until we could collect enough for a drink, watching the
drops eagerly, as we had tasted neither food nor water since leaving the
vessel five days before.
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