The vast floating hotel spins on at twenty miles an hour--a speed that
might possibly shame some of the railways that run from London
suburbs--and the officers want to save every yard. No care is omitted;
three men are on the bridge at night, there is a starboard look-out, a
port look-out, and the quartermaster patrols amidships and sees that the
masthead light is all right The officer and the look-out men pass the
word every half-hour, and nothing escapes notice. If some unlucky
steerage passenger happens to strike a light forward, he stands a very
good chance of being put in irons; and, if there is a patient in the
deck-house, the windows must be darkened with thick cloths. Each
officer, on hazy nights, improvises a sort of hood for himself; and he
peers forward as if life depended on his eyesight--as indeed it does.
But there comes a bright evening, and the monster liner's journey is all
but over; three hours more of steaming and she will be safe. A little
schooner comes skimming up on the port side--and the schooner is to the
liner as a chip is to a tree-trunk. The schooner holds on her course,
for she is not bound to give way at all; but the officer on the bridge
of the steamer thinks, "I shall lose a quarter of an hour if I edge away
to starboard and let him fall astern of us.
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