"You're safe!" he cried out to her with mighty relief. He had pulled trousers and coat over his pajamas; he had shoes, unlaced, upon his bare feet. He was without his glasses and his nearsighted eyes blinked big and blankly; he had on a life-jacket, of the sort under all berths; but he bore in his hands a complete life-suit with big boots into which one stepped and which had a bag top to go up about the neck.
"Put this on!" he thrust it at Ruth.
"We're not sinking," she replied. "Oh, thank you; thank you—but we aren't torpedoed—not yet. They're just firing and we're fighting—" indeed she was shouting to be heard after the noise of their guns—"we must have people hurt."
"We've a lot—a lot hurt," Hubert said.
Other shells were striking the ship; and Ruth went by him into a passage confused with smoke and stumbly from things strewn under her feet; a cabin door hung open and beyond the door, the side of the ship gaped suddenly to the sea. The sides of the gap were jagged and split and splintered wood; a ripped mattress, bedding, a man's coat and shirt, a woman's clothing lay strewn all about; the bedding smouldered and from under it a hand projected—a man's hand. It clasped and opened convulsively; Ruth stopped and grasped the hand; it caught hers very tight and, still holding and held by it, Ruth with her other hand cleared the bedding from off the man's face. She recognized him at once; he was an oldish, gentle but fearless little man—an American who had been a missionary in Turkey; he and his wife, who had worked with him, had been to America to raise money
