Not far behind in the wake of the boat the stern of the _Mazatlan_ rose out of a ring of white foam, the waves breaking over her as if she had been there for ages, the screw writhing its flanges into the air like some enormous starfish already fastened upon the hulk.
One of the other boats could be seen now and then between them and the shore, a momentary dot of black on the vast blur of green and gray.
There was no conversation; the men relieved each other at the oars or bailed out the water with their caps and hands, scarcely interchanging a word.

The only utterance was an occasional moaning from among the women and children.

There was nothing to eat; long since the two whisky flasks had been exhausted.

The rain fell steadily into the sea with a prolonged rippling noise.
Vandover was leaning upon the gunwale of the boat, his head buried in his arms, when suddenly he raised himself and asked of the man who sat next to him: "What was the matter last night?
What caused the accident ?" The other shook his head, wearily, turning away again.

However, the engineer answered: "We couldn't carry coal enough to keep up the right pressure of steam and drifted in upon a reef.