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WILLIAM CHARVAT
American Fiction Collection
The Ohio State University Libraries








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FUTILITY
BY MORGAN ROBERTSON


COPYRIGHT 1898
BY
M. F. MANSFIELD


Futility.
HE was the largest craft afloat and
the greatest of the works of men.
In her construction and maintenance
were involved every science, profession
and trade known to civilization. On her
bridge were officers, who, beside being
the pick of the Royal Navy, had passed
rigid examinations in all studies that per-
tained to the winds, tides, currents and
geography of the sea; they were not only
seamen, but scientists. The same profes-
sional standard applied to the personnel
of the engine-room, and the steward's de-
partment was equal to that of a first-class
hotel.
Two brass bands, two orchestras and a
theatrical company entertained the pas-
sengers during waking hours; a corps
of physicians administered to the tem-
-


2 Futility.
poral, and a corps of chaplains to the
spiritual welfare of all on board, while a
well-drilled fire-company soothed the
fears of nervous ones and added to the
general entertainment by daily practice
with their apparatus.
From her lofty bridge ran hidden tele-
graph lines to the bow, stern, engine-
room, crow's-nest on the foremast, and
to all parts of the ship where work was
done, each wire terminating in a
marked dial with a movable indicator,
containing in its scope every order and
answer required in handling the mas-
sive hulk, either at the dock or at sea —
which eliminated, to a great extent, the
hoarse, nerve-racking shouts of officers
and sailors.
From the bridge, engine-room and a
dozen places on her deck the ninety-two
doors of nineteen water-tight compart-
ments could be closed in half a minute
by turning a lever. These doors would


4 Futility.
city — containing within her steel walls
all that tends to minimize the dangers
and discomforts of the Atlantic voyage
— all that makes life enjoyable.
Unsinkable — indestructible, she car-
ried as few boats as would satisfy the
laws. These, twenty-four in number,
were securely covered and lashed down
to their chocks on the upper deck, and
if launched would hold five hundred
people. She carried no useless, cumber-
some life-rafts; but – because the law
required it – each of the three thousand
berths in the passengers', officers' and
crew's quarters contained a cork jacket,
while about twenty circular life-buoys
were strewn along the rails.
In view of her absolute superiority to
other craft, a rule of navigation thor-
oughly believed in by some captains, but
not yet openly followed, was announced
by the steamship company to apply to
the “Titan”: She would steam at full


8 Futility.
those of tortured fiends, tossed it into
the eighty white-hot mouths of the
furnaces. In the engine-room, oilers
passed to and fro, in and out of the
plunging, twisting, glistening steel, with
oil-cans and waste, overseen by the
watchful staff on duty, who listened with
strained hearing for a false note in the
confused jumble of sound — a clicking
of steel out of tune, which would indi-
cate a loosened key or nut. On deck,
sailors set the triangular sails on the two
masts, to add their propulsion to the
momentum of the record-breaker, and
the passengers dispersed themselves as
suited their several tastes. Some were
seated in steamer chairs, well wrapped
— for, though it was April, the salt air
was chilly — some paced the deck, ac-
quiring their sea legs; others listened to
the orchestra in the music-room, or read .
or wrote in the library, and a few took
to their berths — sea-sick from the slight


IO Futility.
and shambled forward with his bucket.
As he reached the group of ladies to
whom the boatswain had spoken, his
gaze rested on one — a sunny-haired
young woman with the blue of the sea
in her eyes – who had arisen at his ap-
proach. He started, turned aside as if
to avoid her, and raising his hand in an
embarrassed half-salute, passed on. Out
of the boatswain's sight he leaned against
the deck-house and panted, while he held
his hand to his breast.
“What is it?” he muttered, wearily;
“whiskey nerves, or the dying flutter of
a starved love. Five years, now — and
a look from her eyes can stop the blood
in my veins — can bring back all the
heart-hunger and helplessness, that leads
a man to insanity – or this.” He looked
at his trembling hand, all seamed and
tar-stained, passed on forward and re-
turned with the sand-paper.
The young woman had been equally


Futility. - II
affected by the meeting. An expression
of mingled surprise and terror had come
to her pretty, but rather weak face; and
without acknowledging his half salute,
she had caught up a little child from the
deck behind her, and turning into the
saloon door, hurried to the library, where
she sank into a chair beside a military-
looking gentleman, who glanced up
from a book and remarked: “Seen the
sea-serpent, Myra, or the Flying Dutch-
man? What's up?”
“Oh, George — no,” she answered in
agitated tones. “John Rowland is here
— Lieutenant Rowland. I’ve just seen
him — he is so changed — he tried to
speak to me.”
“Who — that troublesome flame of
yours? I never met him, you know, and
you haven’t told me much about him.
What is he – first cabin?”
“No, he seems to be a common sailor;
he is working, and is dressed in old


I2 Futility.
clothes — all dirt. And such a dissi-
pated face, too. He seems to have fallen
– so low. And it is all since —”
“Since you soured on him? Well, it
is no fault of yours, dear. If a man has
it in him he'll go to the dogs anyhow.
How is his sense of injury? Has he a
grievance or a grudge? You're badly
upset. What did he say?”
“I don't know — he said nothing —
I’ve always been afraid of him. I’ve met
him three times since then, and he puts
such a frightful look in his eyes – and
he was so violent, and headstrong, and
so terribly angry, — that time. He ac-
cused me of leading him on, and playing
with him; and he said something about
an immutable law of chance, and a gov-
erning balance of events — that I
couldn’t understand, only where he said
that for all the suffering we inflict on
others, we receive an equal amount our-
selves. Then he went away — in such a


Futility. I3
passion. I've imagined ever since that
he would take some revenge – he might
steal our Myra – our baby.” She
strained the smiling child to her breast
and went on. “I liked him at first, until
I found out that he was an atheist –
why, George, he actually denied the ex-
istence of God — and to me, a professing
Christian.”
“He had a wonderful nerve,” said the
husband with a smile; “didn't know you
very well, I should say.”
“He never seemed the same to me
after that,” she resumed; “I felt as
though in the presence of something
unclean. Yet I thought how glorious
it would be if I could save him to God,
and tried to convince him of the loving
care of Jesus; but he only ridiculed all
I hold sacred, and said, that much as he
valued my good opinion, he would not
be a hypocrite to gain it, and that he
would be honest with himself and others,


14 Futility.
and express his honest unbelief–the
idea: as though one could be honest
without God’s help – and then, one day,
I smelled liquor on his breath — he
always smelled of tobacco — and I gave
him up. It was then that he – that he
broke out.”
“Come out and show me this repro-
bate,” said the husband, rising. They
went to the door and the young woman
peered out. “He is the last man down
there — close to the cabin,” she said as
she drew in. The husband stepped out.
“What! that hang-dog ruffian, scour-
ing the ventilator? So, that's Rowland,
of the navy, is it? Well, this is a tumble.
Wasn't he broken for conduct unbecom-
ing an officer? Got roaring drunk at
the President's levee, didn’t he? I think
I read of it.”
“I know he lost his position and was
terribly disgraced,” answered the wife.
“Well, Myra, the poor devil is harm-


Futility. - I5
less now. We'll be across in a few days,
and you needn't meet him on this broad
deck. If he hasn’t lost all sensibility,
he's as embarrassed as you. Better stay
in now — it's getting foggy.”


CHAPTER III.
When the watch turned out at mid-
night, they found a vicious half-gale
blowing from the north-east, which,
added to the speed of the steamship,
made, so far as effects on her deck went,
a fairly uncomfortable whole gale of
chilly wind. The head sea, choppy as
compared with her great length, dealt
the “Titan” successive blows, each one
attended by supplementary tremors to
the continuous vibrations of the engines
– each one sending a cloud of thick
spray aloft that reached the crow's-nest
on the foremast and battered the pilot-
house windows on the bridge in a liquid
bombardment that would have broken
ordinary glass. A fog-bank, into which
the ship had plunged in the afternoon,
still enveloped her – damp and impene-
trable; and into the gray, ever-receding


Futility. 17
wall ahead, with two deck officers and
three lookouts straining sight and hear-
ing to the utmost, the great racer was
charging with undiminished speed.
At a quarter past twelve, two men
crawled in from the darkness at the ends
of the eighty-foot bridge and shouted to
the first officer, who had just taken the
deck, the names of the men who had re-
lieved them. Backing up to the pilot-
house, the officer repeated the names to
a quarter-master within, who entered
them in the log-book. Then the men
vanished—to their coffee and “watch-
In a few moments another drip-
below.’
ping shape appeared on the bridge and
reported the crow's-nest relief.
“Rowland, you say?” bawled the
officer above the howling of the wind.
“Is he the man who was lifted aboard,
drunk, yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he straight now?”


Futility. I9
on the other side of the large bridge bin-
nacle, only leaving this position occa-
sionally to glance in at the compass —
which seemed to be his sole duty at sea.
Sheltered by one of the deck-houses be-
low, the boatswain and the watch paced
back and forth, enjoying the only two
hours respite which steamship rules
afforded, for the day's work had ended
with the going down of the other watch,
and at two o'clock the washing of the
'tween-deck would begin, as an opening
task in the next day's labor.
By the time one bell had sounded, with
its repetition from the crow's-nest, fol-
lowed by a long-drawn cry – “all's-
well” from the lookouts, the last of the
two thousand passengers had retired,
leaving the spacious cabins and steerage
in possession of the watchmen; while,
sound asleep in his cabin abaft the chart-
room was the captain, the commander
who never commanded — unless the ship


22 Futility.
heard, high above the confused murmur
of shouts and shrieks, a sailorly voice:
“May the curse of God light on you
and your cheese-knife, you brass-bound
murderers.”
The shapes were swallowed in the
blackness astern; the cries were hushed
by the clamor of the gale, and the steam-
ship “Titan” swung back to her course.
The first officer had not turned the lever
of the engine-room telegraph.
The boatswain bounded up the steps
of the bridge for instructions.
“Put men at the hatches and doors.
Send every one who comes on deck to
the chart-room. Tell the watchman to
notice what the passengers have learned,
and clear away that wreck forward as
soon as possible.” The voice of the
officer was hoarse and strained as he
gave these directions, and the “aye, aye,
sir” of the boatswain was uttered in a
gaSP.


CHAPTER IV.
The crow's-nest “lookout,” sixty feet
above the deck, had seen every detail of
the horror, from the moment when the
upper sails of the doomed ship had ap-
peared to him above the fog, to the time
when the last tangle of wreckage was cut
away by his watchmates below. When
relieved at four bells, he descended with
as little strength in his limbs as was com-
patible with safety in the rigging. At
the rail, the boatswain met him.
“Report your relief, Rowland,” he
said, “and go into the chart-room!”
On the bridge, as he gave the name of
his successor, the first officer seized his
hand, pressed it, and repeated the boat-
swain's order. In the chart-room, he
found the captain of the “Titan,” pale-
faced and intense in manner, seated at a
table, and, grouped around him, the


26 - Futility.
"I understand,” he said, “that you
were in the crow's-nest when this un-
fortunate collision occurred.”
“Yes, sir; and I reported the ship as
Soon as I saw her.”
"You are not here to be censured.
You are aware, of course, that nothing
could be done, either to avert this terri-
ble calamity, or to save life afterward.”
“Nothing at a speed of twenty-five
knots an hour in a thick fog, sir.” The
captain glanced sharply at Rowland and
frowned.
“We will not discuss the speed of the
ship, my good man,” he said, “or the
rules of the company. You will find,
when you are paid at Liverpool, a pack-
age addressed to you at the company's
office containing one hundred pounds in
bank-notes. This, you will receive for
your silence in regard to this collision —
the reporting of which would embarrass
the company and help no one.”


Futility. - 27
“On the contrary, Captain, I shall not
receive it. On the contrary, sir, I shall
speak of this wholesale murder at the
first opportunity!”
The captain leaned back and stared at
the debauched face and trembling figure
of the sailor, with which this defiant
speech so little accorded. Under ordi-
nary circumstances, he would have sent
him on deck to be dealt with by the offi-
cers. But this was not an ordinary cir-
cumstance. In the watery eyes was a
look of shock, and horror, and honest in-
dignation; the accents were those of an
educated man; and the consequences
hanging over himself and the company
for which he worked – already compli-
cated by and involved in his efforts to
avoid them — which this man might pre-
cipitate, were so extreme, that such
questions as insolence and difference in
rank were not to be thought of. He
must meet and subdue this Tartar on
common ground — as man to man.


28 Futility.
"Are you aware, Rowland,” he asked
Quietly, “that you will stand alone—that
you will be discredited, lose your berth
and make enemies?”
"I am aware of more than that,” an-
swered Rowland excitedly. “I know of
the power vested in you as captain. I
know that you can order me into irons
from this room for any offence you wish
to imagine. And I know that an unwit-
nessed, uncorroborated entry in your of-
ficial log concerning me would be evi-
dence enough to bring me life imprison-
ment. But I also know something of
Admiralty law; that from my prison cell
I can send you and your first officer to
the gallows.”
“You are mistaken in your concep-
tions of evidence. I could not cause
your conviction by a log-book entry;
nor could you, from a prison, injure me.
What are you, may I ask — an ex-law-
yer?”


Futility. 29
“A graduate of Annapolis. Your
equal in professional technique.”
“And you have interest at Washing-
ton?”
“None whatever.”
“And what is your object in taking
this stand — which can do you no possi-
ble good, though certainly not the harm
you speak of.”
“That I may do one good, strong act
in my useless life – that I may help to
arouse such a sentiment of anger in the
two countries as will forever end this
wanton destruction of life and property
for the sake of speed — that will save the
hundreds of fishing-craft, and others, run
down yearly, to their owners, and the
crews to their families.”
Both men had arisen and the captain
was pacing the floor as Rowland, with
flashing eyes and clenched fists, deliv-
ered this declaration.
“A result to be hoped for, Rowland,”


32 Futility.
“Well, Captain,” he thought, “you are,
in truth, about as puerile, insipid a
scoundrel as ever escaped the law. I'll
save you your drugged dutch-courage
for evidence.” But it was not drugged,
as he learned later. It was good whis-
ky — a leader — to warm his stomach
while the captain was studying.


34 Futility.
Rowland lifted the tot and said, tenderly:
“Well, little one, you must run back to
Mamma. You're in bad company.”
The innocent eyes smiled into his own,
and then — a foolish proceeding, which
only bachelors are guilty of — he held
her above the rail in jesting menace.
“Shall I drop you over to the fishes,
Baby?” he asked, while his features soft-
ened to an unwonted smile. The child
gave a little scream of fright, and at that
instant a young woman appeared around
the corner. She sprang toward Row-
land like a tigress, snatched the child,
stared at him for a moment with dilated
eyes, and then disappeared, leaving him
limp and nerveless – breathing hard.
“It is her child,” he groaned. “That
was the mother-look. She is married—
married.” He resumed his work, with
a face as near the color of the paint he
was scrubbing as the tanned skin of a
sailor may become.


Futility. 35
Ten minutes later, the captain, in his
office, was listening to a complaint from
a very excited man and woman.
“And you say, Colonel,” said the cap-
tain, “that this man Rowland is an old
enemy?”
, “He is —or was once – a rejected ad-
mirer of Mrs. Selfridge. That is all I
know of him – except that he has hinted
at revenge. My wife is certain of what
she saw, and I think the man should be
confined.”
“Why, Captain,” said the woman, ve-
hemently, as she hugged her child, “you
should have seen him; he was just about
to drop Myra over as I seized her — and
he had such a frightful leer on his face,
too. Oh, it was hideous. I shall not
sleep another wink in this ship — I
know.” -
“I beg you will give yourself no un-
easiness, Madam,” said the captain,
gravely. “I have already learned some-


36 - Futility.
thing of his antecedents – that he is a
disgraced and broken-down naval offi-
cer; but, as he has sailed three voyages
with us, I had credited his willingness to
work before-the-mast to his craving for
liquor, which he could not satisfy with-
out money. However – as you think
— he may be following you. Was he
able to learn of your movements — that
you were to take passage in this ship?”
“Why not?” exclaimed the husband;
“he must know some of Mrs. Selfridge's
friends.” *
“Yes, yes,” she said, eagerly; “I have
heard him spoken of, several times.”
“Then it is clear,” said the captain.
“If you will agree, Madam, to testify
against him in the English courts, I will
immediately put him in irons for at-
tempted murder.”
“Oh, do, Captain,” she exclaimed.
“I cannot feel safe while he is at liberty.
Of course I will testify.”


Futility. 39
at supper time, which need not be de-
scribed beyond mention of the fact that
Rowland, who was not a participant, had
his pot of tea dashed from his hand be-
fore he had taken three swallows. He
procured a fresh supply and finished his
supper; then, taking no part in his
watchmates' open discussion of the fight,
and guarded discussion of collisions,
rolled into his bunk and smoked until
eight bells, when he turned out with the
reSt.


CHAPTER VI.
“Rowland,” said the big boatswain as
the watch mustered on deck; “take the
starboard bridge lookout.”
“It is not my trick, Boats'n,” said
Rowland in surprise.
“Orders from the bridge. Get up
there.”
Rowland grumbled, as sailors may
when aggrieved, and obeyed. The man
he relieved reported his name and dis-
appeared; the first officer sauntered
down the bridge, uttered the official
“keep a good lookout,” and returned to
his post; then the silence and loneliness
of a night-watch at sea, intensified by the
never-ceasing hum of the engines, and
relieved only by the sounds of distant
music and laughter from the theater, de-
scended on the forward part of the ship.
For the fresh westerly wind, coming


Futility. 43
officer with a cynical smile. “I won-
der,” he said to himself, “why he comes
down here talking navigation to a fore-
mast hand. Why am I up here — out
of my turn? Is this something in line
with that bottle?” He resumed the
short pacing back and forth on the end
of the bridge, and the rather gloomy
train of thought which the officer had in-
terrupted.
“How long,” he mused, “would his
ambition, and love of profession last him
after he had met, and won, and lost, the
only woman on earth to him. Why is
it — that failure to hold the affections
of one among the millions of women
who live, and love, can outweigh every
blessing in life, and turn a man's nature
into a hell, to consume him? Who did
she marry? Some one, probably, a
stranger long after my banishment, who
came to her possessed of a few qualities
of mind or physique that pleased her, —


44 Futility.
who did not need to love her — his
chances were better without that — and
he steps coolly and easily into my
heaven. And they tell us, that “God
doeth all things well,” and that there is
a heaven where all our unsatisfied wants
are attended to — provided we have the
necessary faith in it. That means, if it
means anything, that after a lifetime of
unrecognized allegiance, during which I
win nothing but her fear and contempt,
I may be rewarded by the love and com-
panionship of her soul. Do I love her
soul? Has her soul beauty of face and
the figure and carriage of a Venus? Has
her soul deep, blue eyes and a sweet, mu-
sical voice? Has it wit, and grace, and
charm? Has it a wealth of pity for suf-
fering? These are the things I loved.
I do not love her soul, if she has one. I
do not want it. I want her – I need
33
her.” He stopped in his walk and
leaned against the bridge railing, with


Futility. 45
eyes fixed on the fog ahead. He was
speaking his thoughts aloud now, and
the first officer drew within hearing, lis-
tened a moment, and went back.
“Working on him,” he whispered to the
third officer. Then he pushed the but-
ton which called the captain, blew a
short blast of the steam whistle as a call
to the boatswain, and resumed his watch
on the drugged lookout, while the third
officer conned the ship. -
The steam call to the boatswain is so
common a sound on a steamship as to
generally pass unnoticed. This call af-
fected another besides the boatswain.
A little night-gowned figure arose from
an under berth in a saloon state-room,
and, with wide-open, staring eyes,
groped its way to the deck, unobserved
by the watchman. The white, bare lit-
tle feet felt no cold as they pattered the
planks of the deserted promenade, and
the little figure had reached the steerage


Futility. 47
and merciful God —” he burst into a fit
of incongruous laughter, which stopped
short as he clapped his hands to his stom-
ach and then to his head. “What ails
me?” he gasped; “I feel as though I had
swallowed hot coals – and my head —
and my eyes – I can't see.” The pain
left him in a moment and the laughter
returned. “What's wrong with the star-
board anchor? It's moving. It's chang-
ing. It's a — what? What on earth is
it? On end — and the windlass — and
the spare anchors — and the davits — all
alive — all moving.”
The sight he saw would have been
horrid to a healthy mind, but it only
moved this man to increased and uncon-
trollable merriment. The two rails be-
low leading to the stem had arisen
before him in a shadowy triangle; and
within it were the deck-fittings he had
mentioned. The windlass had become a
thing of horror, black and forbidding.


Futility. 49
sanity to mutter: “They've drugged me;”
but in an instant he stood in the dark-
ness of a garden – one that he had
known. In the distance were the lights of
a house, and close to him was a young
girl, who turned from him and fled, even
as he called to her. .
By a supreme effort of will, he brought
himself back to the present, to the bridge
he stood upon, and to his duty. “Why
must it haunt me through the years,” he
groaned; “drunk then – drunk since.
She could have saved me, but she chose
to damn me.” He strove to pace up and
down, but staggered, and clung to the
rail; while the three watchers approached
again, and the little white figure below
climbed the upper bridge steps.
“The survival of the fittest,” he ram-
bled as he stared into the fog; “cause and
effect. It explains the Universe — and
me.” He lifted his hand and spoke
loudly, as though to some unseen famil-


50 Futility.
iar of the deep. “What will be the last
effect. Where in the scheme of ultimate
balance – under the law of the corre-
lation of energy, will my wasted wealth
of love be gathered, and weighed, and
credited? What will balance it, and
where will I be? Myra, – Myra,” he
called; “do you know what you have
lost? Do you know, in your goodness,
and purity, and truth, of what you have
done? Do you know —”
The fabric on which he stood was
gone, and he seemed to be poised on
nothing in a worldless universe of gray
- alone. And in the vast, limitless emp-
tiness there was no sound, or life, or
change; and in his heart neither fear, nor
wonder, nor emotion of any kind, save
one - the unspeakable hunger of a love
that had failed. Yet it seemed that he
was not John Rowland, but someone,
or something else; for presently he saw
himself, far away — millions of billions


52 Futility.
of nebula, which resolved into myriad
points of sparkling light and color –
whirling, encroaching, until they filled
all space. And through them the larger
light was coming — and growing larger
— straight for him.
He heard a rushing sound, and look-
ing for it, saw in the opposite direction
a formless object, as much darker than
the gray of the void as the flame was
brighter, and it too was growing larger,
and coming. And it seemed to him that
this light and darkness were the good
and evil of his life, and he watched, to
see which would reach him first, but felt
no surprise or regret when he saw that
the darkness was nearest. It came,
closer and closer, until it brushed him on
the side.
“What have we here, Rowland?” said
a voice. Instantly, the whirling points
were blotted out; the universe of gray
changed to the fog; the flame of light to


CHAPTER VII.
Forty-five thousand tons — dead-
weight — rushing through the fog at the
rate of fifty feet a second, had hurled it-
self at an ice-berg. Had the impact
been received by a perpendicular wall,
the elastic resistance of bending plates
and frames would have Overcome the
momentum with no more damage to the
passengers than a severe shaking up,
and to the ship, than the crushing in of
her bows and the killing, to a man, of the
watch below. She would have backed
off, and, slightly down by the head, fin-
ished the voyage at reduced speed, to re-
build on insurance money, and benefit,
largely, in the end, by the consequent
advertising of her indestructibility. But
a low beach, possibly formed by the re-
cent overturning of the berg, received
the “Titan,” and with her keel cutting


56 Futility.
the ice like the steel runner of an ice-
boat, and her great weight resting on the
starboard bilge, she rose out of the sea,
higher and higher — until the propellers
in the stern were half exposed – then,
meeting an easy, spiral rise in the ice
under her port bow, she heeled, over-
balanced, and crashed down on her side,
to starboard.
The holding-down bolts of twelve
boilers and three triple-expansion en-
gines, unintended to hold such weights
from a perpendicular flooring, snapped,
and down through a maze of ladders,
gratings and fore-and-aft bulk-heads
came these giant masses of steel and
iron, puncturing the sides of the ship,
even where backed by solid, resisting ice;
and filling the engine and boiler-rooms
with scalding steam, which brought a
quick, though tortured death, to each of
the hundred men on duty in the engi-
neer's departmtent.


Futility. - 57
Amid the roar of escaping steam, and
the bee-like buzzing of nearly three thou-
sand human voices, raised in agonized
screams and callings from within the en-
closing walls, and the whistling of air
through hundreds of open dead-lights as
the water, entering the holes of the
crushed and riven starboard side, ex-
pelled it, the “Titan” moved slowly back-
ward and launched herself into the sea,
where she floated low on her side – a
dying monster, groaning with her death-
wound.
A solid, pyramid-like hummock of ice,
left to starboard as the steamer ascended,
and which projected close along-side the
upper, or boat deck, as she fell over, had
caught, in succession, every pair of dav-
its to starboard, bending and wrench-
ing them, smashing boats, and snapping
tackles and gripes, until, as the ship
cleared herself, it capped the pile of
wreckage strewing the ice in front of,


Futility. 59
this too was suddenly hushed, and the
ensuing silence broken by dull, booming
reports — as from bursting compart-
ments – Rowland knew that the holo-
caust was complete; that the invincible
“Titan,” with nearly all of her people,
unable to climb vertical floors and ceil-
ings, was beneath the surface of the sea.
Mechanically, his benumbed faculties
had received and recorded the impres-
sions of the last few moments; he could
not comprehend, to the full, the horror
of it all. Yet his mind was keenly alive
to the peril of the woman whose appeal-
ing voice he had heard and recognized –
the woman of his dream, and the mother
of the child in his arms. He hastily ex-
amined the wreckage. Not a boat was
intact. Creeping down to the water's
edge, he hailed, with all the power of his
weak voice, to possible, but invisible
boats beyond the fog – calling on them
to come and save the child —to look out


6o Futility.
for a woman who had been on deck,
under the bridge. He shouted this
woman's name – the one that he knew
- encouraging her to swim, to tread
water, to float on wreckage, and to an-
Swer him, until he came to her. There :
Was no response, and when his voice had
grown hoarse and futile, and his feet
numb from the cold of the thawing ice,
he returned to the wreckage, weighed
down and all but crushed by the blackest
desolation that had so far, come into his
unhappy life. The little girl was crying
and he tried to soothe her.
“I want Mamma,” she wailed.
“Hush, Baby, hush,” he answered
wearily and bitterly; “so do I — more
than Heaven. But I think our chances
are about even now. Are you cold, lit-
tle one? We'll go inside, and I'll make
a house for us.”
He removed his coat, tenderly
wrapped the little figure in it, and with


62 Futility.
Huddled in a corner, he gave himself
up to the torment of his thoughts. Two
pictures alternately crowded his mind;
one, that of the woman of his dream, en-
treating him to come back — which his
memory clung to as an oracle; the other,
of this woman, cold and lifeless, fathoms
deep in the sea. He pondered on her
chances. She was close to, or on the
bridge steps; and boat twenty-four,
which he was almost sure was being
cleared away as he looked, would swing
close to her as it descended. She could
climb in and be saved — unless the
swimmers from doors and hatches
should swamp the boat. And, in his
agony of mind, he cursed these swim-
mers, preferring to see her, mentally, the
only passenger in the boat, with the
watch-on-deck to pull her to safety.
The potent drug he had taken was still
at work, and this, with the musical swash
of the sea on the icy beach, and the muf-


Futility. 63
fled creaking and crackling beneath and
around him — the voice of the iceberg
— overcame him finally, and he slept, to
waken at daylight with limbs stiffened
and numb – almost frozen.
And all night, as he slept, a boat with
the number twenty-four on her bow,
pulled by sturdy sailors and steered by
brass-buttoned officers, was making for
the Southern Lane — the highway of
spring traffic. And, crouched in the
stern-sheets of this boat was a moaning,
praying woman, who cried and screamed
at intervals, for husband and baby, and
would not be comforted, even when one
of the brass-buttoned officers assured her
that her child was safe in the care of
John Rowland, a brave and trusty sailor,
who was certainly in the other boat with
it. He did not tell her, of course, that
Rowland had hailed from the berg as she
lay unconscious, and that if he still had
the child, it was with him there —
deserted.


Futility. 65
proaching from the direction of the
peaks.
His eyes were not yet in good condi-
tion, and after an uncertain scrutiny he
started at a run; for he saw that the mys-
terious white object was nearer the
bridge than himself, and rapidly lessen-
ing the distance. A hundred yards away,
his heart bounded and the blood in his
veins felt cold as the ice under-foot, for
the white object proved to be a traveler
from the frozen North, lean and fam-
ished — a polar-bear, who had scented
food and was seeking it — coming on at
a lumbering run, with great red jaws
half open, and yellow fangs exposed.
Rowland had no weapon but a strong
jack-knife, but this he pulled from his
pocket and opened as he ran. Not for
an instant did he hesitate at a conflict
that promised almost certain death; for
the presence of this bear involved the
safety of a child whose life had become


66 Futility.
of more importance to him than his own.
To his horror, he saw it creep out of the
opening in its white covering, just as the
bear turned the corner of the bridge.
“Go back, Baby, go back,” he shouted,
as he bounded down the slope. The bear
reached the child first, and with seem-
ingly no effort, dashed it, with a blow of
its massive paw, a dozen feet away, where
it lay quiet. Turning to follow, the brute
was met by Rowland.
The bear rose to his haunches, sank
down, and charged; and Rowland felt
the bones of his left arm crushing under
the bite of the big, yellow-fanged jaws.
But, falling, he buried the knife-blade in
the shaggy hide, and the bear, with an
angry snarl, spat out the mangled mem-
ber and dealt him a sweeping blow which
sent him farther along the ice than the
child had gone. He arose, with broken
ribs, and — scarcely feeling the pain —
awaited the second charge. Again was


7o Futility.
who saw it. But he was only a man,
and suffering mental and physical
anguish.
By the time he had finished, the child
had recovered consciousness, and was
protesting its misery in a feeble, wailing
cry. But he dared not stop — to be-
come stiffened with cold and pain.
There was plenty of fresh water from
melting ice, scattered in pools. The
bear would furnish food; but they
needed fire, to cook this food, keep them
warm and the dangerous inflammation
from their hurts, and to raise a smoke
to be seen by passing craft.
He recklessly drank from the bottle,
needing the stimulant, and reasoning,
perhaps rightly, that no ordinary drug
could affect him in his present condition;
then he examined the wreckage — most
of it good kindling wood. Partly above,
partly below the pile, was a steel life-
boat, decked over air-tight ends, now


72 Futility.
while, and Rowland lay down with it in
the warm boat. Before the day had
passed the whisky was gone and he was
delirious with fever, while the child was
but little better.


74 Futility.
he had not seen it; nor was there one in
sight now. Too weak to climb the
slope, he returned to the boat, where the
child, exhausted from fruitless crying,
was now sleeping. His unskilful, and
rather heroic manner of wrapping it up
to protect it from cold had, no doubt,
contributed largely to the closing of its
wounds by forcibly keeping it still,
though it must have added to its present
sufferings. He looked for a moment on:
the wan, tear-stained little face, with its
fringe of tangled curls peeping above the
wrappings of canvas, and stooping pain-
fully down, kissed it softly; but the kiss
awakened it and it cried for its mother.
He could not soothe it, nor could he try;
and with a formless, wordless curse
against destiny welling up from his
heart, he left it and sat down on the
wreckage at some distance away.
“We'll very likely get well,” he mused,
gloomily; “unless I let the fire go out.


Futility. - 77
into the sky, where a few stars shone
faintly in the flood from the moon; “Up
there — somewhere — they don't know
just where — but somewhere up above,
is the Christian's heaven. Up there is
their good God — who has placed
Myra's child here – their good God
whom they borrowed from the savage,
blood-thirsty race that invented him.
And down below us — somewhere again
— is their hell and their bad god, whom
they invented themselves. And they
give us our choice – heaven or hell. It
is not so — not so. The great mystery
is not solved — the human heart is not
helped in this way. No good, merciful
God created this world or its conditions.
Whatever may be the nature of the
causes at work beyond our mental vision,
one fact is indubitably proven — that the
qualities of mercy, goodness, justice,
play no part in the governing scheme.
And yet, they say the core of all religions


78 Futility.
On earth is the belief in this. Is it? Or
is it the cowardly, human fear of the un-
known – that impels the savage mother
to throw her babe to a crocodile — that
impels the civilized man to endow
churches — that has kept in existence
from the beginning a class of sooth-say-
ers, medicine-men, priests and clergy-
men, all living on the hopes and fears
excited by themselves.
“And people pray — millions of them
— and claim they are answered. Are
they? Was ever supplication sent into
that sky by troubled humanity, an-
swered, or even heard? Who knows?
They pray for rain and sunshine, and
both come in time. They pray for
health and success and both are but nat-
ural in the marching of events. This is
not evidence. But they say that they
know, by spiritual uplifting, that they are
heard, and comforted, and answered at
the moment. Is not this a physiological


SO Futility.
ined power? Can such time come to a
sane man — to me?” He looked at the
dark line of vacant horizon. It was
seven miles away; New York was nine
hundred; the moon in the east over two
hundred thousand, and the stars above,
any number of billions. He was alone,
with a sleeping child, a dead bear and
the Unknown. He walked softly to the
boat and looked at the little one for a
moment; then, raising his head, he whis-
pered: “For you, Myra.”
Sinking to his knees the atheist lifted
his eyes to the heavens, and with his
feeble voice and the fervor born of help-
lessness, prayed to the God that he de-
nied. He begged for the life of the waif
in his care — for the safety of the
mother, so needful to the little one —
and for courage and strength to do his
part and bring them together. But be-
yond the appeal for help in the service
of others, not one word or expressed


S2 Futility.
—------- - –-
the approach of a white quarter-boat, he
muttered: “That bark was there — half
a mile back in this wind – before I
thought of praying. Is that prayer an-
swered? Is she safe?”


CHAPTER X.
On the first floor of the London Royal
Exchange is a large apartment studded
with desks, around and between which
surges a hurrying, shouting crowd of
brokers, clerks and messengers. Fring-
ing this apartment are doors and hall-
ways leading to adjacent rooms and of-
fices, and scattered through it are bulle-
tin-boards, on which are daily written in
duplicate the marine casualities of the
world. At one end is a raised platform,
sacred to the presence of an important
functionary. In the technical language
of the “City,” the apartment is known as
the “Room,” and the functionary, as the
“Caller,” whose business it is, to call out
in a mighty sing-song voice the names
of members wanted at the door, and the
bare particulars of bulletin news prior to
its being chalked out for reading.


84 Futility.
It is the head-quarters of Lloyds —
the immense association of under-
writers, brokers and shipping-men,
which, beginning with the customers at
Edward Lloyd's coffee-house in the lat-
ter part of the seventeenth century, has,
retaining his name for a title, developed
into a corporation so well equipped, so
splendidly organized and powerful, that
kings and ministers of State appeal to it
at times for foreign news.
Not a master or mate sails under the
English flag but whose record, even to
forecastle fights, is tabulated at Lloyds
for the inspection of prospective employ-
ers. Not a ship is cast away on any in-
habitable coast of the world, during un-
derwriters’ business hours, but what that
mighty sing-song cry announces the
event at Lloyds within thirty minutes.
One of the adjoining rooms is known
as the Chart-room. Here can be found
in perfect order and sequence, each on


Futility. 85
its roller, the newest charts of all nations,
with a library of nautical literature de-
scribing to the last detail the harbors,
lights, rocks, shoals and sailing direc-
tions of every coast-line shown on the
charts; the tracks of latest storms; the
changes of ocean currents, and the
whereabouts of derelicts and ice-bergs.
A member at Lloyds acquires in time a
theoretical knowledge of the sea seldom
exceeded by the men who navigate it.
Another apartment — the Captain's-
room – is given over to joy and refresh-
ment, and still another, the antithesis of
the last, is the Intelligence office, where
anxious ones inquire for and are told the
latest news of this or that over-due ship.
On the day when the assembled
throng of under-writers and brokers had
been thrown into an uproarious panic by
the Crier's announcement that the great
“Titan” was destroyed, and the papers of
Europe and America were issuing extras


86 Futility.
giving the meagre details of the arrival
at New York of one boat-load of her
people, this office had been crowded
with weeping women and worrying men,
who would ask, and remain to ask again,
for more news. And when it came — a
later cablegram, – giving the story of
the wreck and the names of the captain,
first officer, boatswain, seven sailors and
one lady passenger as those of the saved,
a feeble old gentleman had raised his
voice in a quavering scream, high above
the sobbing of women and said:
“My daughter-in-law is safe; but
where is my son, — where is my son,
and my grand-child?” Then he had
hurried away, but was back again the
next day, and the next. And when, on
the tenth day of waiting and watching,
he learned of another boat-load of sailors
and children arrived at Gibraltar, he
shook his head slowly, muttering:
“George, George,” and left the room.


Futility. 87
That night, after telegraphing the consul
at Gibraltar of his coming, he crossed
the channel.
In the first tumultuous riot of inquiry,
when under-writers had climbed over
desks and each other to hear again of the
wreck of the “Titan,” one — the noisiest
of all, a corpulent, hook-nosed man with
flashing black eyes – had broken away
from the crowd and made his way to the
Captain's room, where, after a draught
of brandy, he had seated himself heavily,
with a groan that came from his soul.
“Father Abraham,” he muttered; “this
will ruin me.”
Others came in, some to drink, some
to condole, — all, to talk.
“Hard hit, Meyer?” asked one.
“Ten thousand,” he answered, gloom-
ily.
“Serve you right,” said another un-
kindly; “have more baskets for your
eggs. Knew you’d bring up.”


88 Futility.
Though Mr. Meyer's eyes sparkled at
this, he said nothing, but drank himself
stupid and was assisted home by one of
his clerks. From this on, neglecting his
business – excepting to occasionally
visit the bulletins — he spent his time in
the Captain’s-room, drinking heavily,
and bemoaning his luck. On the tenth
day he read with watery eyes, posted on
the bulletin below the news of the arrival
at Gibraltar of the second boat-load of
people, the following:
“Life-buoy of ‘Royal Age, London,
picked up among wreckage in Lat. 45-20,
N. Lon. 54-31, W. Ship Arctic', Boston,
Capt. Brandt.”
“Oh, mine good God,” he howled, as
he rushed toward the Captain's-room.
“Poor devil – poor damn fool of an
Israelite,” said one observer to another.
“He covered the whole of the ‘Royal
Age and the biggest chunk of the
‘Titan'. It’ll take his wife's diamonds
to settle.”


Futility. 89
**
Three weeks later, Mr. Meyer was
aroused from a brooding lethargy, by a
crowd of shouting under-writers, who
rushed into the Captain's-room, seized
him by the shoulders, and hurried him
out and up to a bulletin.
“Read it, Meyer — read it. What
d'you think of it?” With some difficulty
he read aloud, while they watched his
face:
“John Rowland, sailor of the ‘Titan',
with child passenger, name unknown, on
board bark “Peerless’, Bath, at Christians-
and, Norway. Both dangerously ill. Row-
land speaks of ship cut in half night before
loss of “Titan’.”
“What do you make of it, Meyer–
‘Royal Age', isn't it?” asked one.
“Yes,” vociferated another, “I’ve fig-
ured back. Only ship not reported
lately. Over-due two months. Was
spoken same day fifty miles east of that
iceberg.”


90 Futility.
“Sure thing,” said others. “Nothing
said about it in the captain's statement—
looks queer.”
“Vell, vwhat of it,” said Mr. Meyer,
painfully and stupidly; “dere is a col-
lision clause in der Titan's policy; I
merely bay the money to der steam-ship
company instead of to der ‘Royal Age'
beeple.”
“But why did the captain conceal it,”
they shouted at him. “What's his ob-
ject — assured against collision suits.”
“Der looks of it, berhaps – looks
pad.”
“Nonsense, Meyer, what's the matter
with you. Which one of the lost tribes
did you spring from — you're like none
of your race – drinking yourself stupid
like a good Christian. I’ve got a thou-
sand on the ‘Titan, and if I'm to pay it
I want to know why. You've got the
heaviest risk and the brain to fight for
it – you’ve got to do it. Go home,


CHAPTER XI.
On a certain morning, about two
months after the announcement of the
loss of the “Titan,” Mr. Meyer sat at his
desk in the Rooms, busily writing, when
the Old gentleman who had bewailed the
death of his son in the Intelligence of-
fice, tottered in and took a chair beside
him.
“Good morning, Mr. Selfridge,” he
said, scarcely looking up; “I suppose
you have come to see der insurance paid
over. Der sixty days are up.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Meyer,” said the old
gentleman, wearily; “of course, as
merely a stock-holder, I can take no ac-
tive part; but I am a member here, and
naturally a little anxious. All I had in
the world — even to my son and grand-
child — was in the ‘Titan’.”
“It is very sad, Mr. Selfridge; you


Futility. 95
well-fed and gentlemanly in manner,
perfect types of the British naval officer,
they bowed politely to Mr. Selfridge
when Mr. Meyer introduced them as the
captain and first officer of the “Titan,”
and seated themselves. A few moments
later brought a shrewd looking person
whom Mr. Meyer addressed as the attor-
ney for the steamship company, but did
not introduce; for such are the amenities
of the English system of caste.
“Now then, gentlemen,” said Mr.
Meyer, “I pelieve we can broceed to piz-
ness up to a certain point —berhaps
further. Mr. Thompson, you have the
affidavit of Captain Bryce?”
“I have,” said the attorney, producing
a document which Mr. Meyer glanced at
and handed back.
“And in this statement, Captain,” he
said, “you have sworn that der voyage
was uneventful up to der moment of der
wreck – that is,” he added with an oily


96 Futility.
smile, as he noticed the paling of the
captain's face – “that nothing occurred
to make der Titan less sea-worthy or
manageable?”
“That is what I swore to,” said the
captain with a little sigh.
“You are part owner, are you not,
Captain Bryce?”
“I own five shares of the company's
stock.”
“I have examined der charter and der
company lists,” said Mr. Meyer; “each
boat of der company is, so far as assess-
ments and dividends are concerned, a
separate company. I find you are listed
as owning two sixty-seconds of der
‘Titan stock. This makes you, under
der law, part owner of der Titan, and
responsible as such.”
“What do you mean, sir, by that word
responsible,” said Captain Bryce,
quickly.
For answer, Mr. Meyer elevated his


98 Futility.
“Yes,” added Captain Bryce, “and a
man in that condition is liable to see
anything. We listened to his ravings
on the night of the wreck. He was on
lookout – on the bridge. Mr. Austen,
the boatsw’n and myself were close to
him.”
Before Mr. Meyer's oily smile had in-
dicated to the flustered captain that he
had said too much, the door opened and
admitted Rowland, pale and weak, with
empty left sleeve, leaning on the arm of
a bronze-bearded and manly looking
giant who carried little Myra on the
other shoulder, and who said, in the
breezy tone of the quarter-deck:
“Well, I’ve brought him, half dead;
but why couldn't you give me time to
dock my ship? A mate can’t do every-
thing.”
“And this is Captain Barry, of der
said Mr. Meyer, taking his
hand. “It is all right, my friend; you
‘Peerless','


I O2 Futility.
telegraph her. I am penniless at pres-
ent, and, besides do not know her name.”
“Selfridge – which, of course, is my
own name. Mrs. Colonel, or Mrs.
George Selfridge. Our New York ad-
dress is well-known. But I shall cable
her at once; and, believe me, sir, al-
though I can understand that our debt
to you cannot be named in terms of
money, you need not be penniless long.
You are evidently a capable man, and I
have wealth and influence.”
Rowland merely bowed, slightly, but
Mr. Meyer muttered to himself:
“Vealth and influence. Berhaps not.
Now, gentlemen,” he added in a louder
tone, “to pizness. Mr. Rowland, will
you tell us about der running down of
der ‘Royal Age’?”
“Was it the ‘Royal Age'?” asked
Rowland; “I sailed in her one voyage.
Yes, certainly.”
Mr. Selfridge, more interested in


104 Futility.
“I saw a polar bear that this man
killed in open fight. I saw his arm
afterward, and while nursing him away
from death I heard no whines or com-
plaints. He can fight his own battles
when well, and when sick I’ll do it for
him. If you insult him again in my
presence I'll knock your teeth down
your throat.”


CHAPTER XII.
There was a moment's silence while
the two captains eyed one another,
broken by the attorney, who said:
“Whether this story is true or false, it
certainly has no bearing on the validity
of the policy. If this happened, it was
after the policy attached and before the
Wreck of the ‘Titan.’”
“But der concealment—der conceal-
ment,” shouted Mr. Meyer, excitedly.
“Has no bearing either. If he con-
cealed anything it was done after the
wreck, and after your liability was con-
firmed. It is not even barratry. You
must pay this insurance.”
“I will not bay it. I will not. I will
fight you in der courts.” Mr. Meyer
stamped up and down the floor in his ex-
citement, then stopped with a tri-
umphant smile, and shook his finger into
the face of the attorney.


IO6 Futility.
“And even if der concealment will not
vitiate der policy, der fact that he had a
drunken man on look-out when der
‘Titan struck der ice-berg will be
enough. Go ahead and sue. I will not
pay. He was part owner.”
“You have no witnesses to that ad-
mission,” said the attorney. Mr. Meyer
looked around the group and the smile
left his face. -
“Captain Bryce was mistaken,” said
Mr. Austen. “This man was drunk at
New York like others of the crew. But
he was sober and competent when on
look-out. I discussed theories of navi-
gation with him during his trick on the
bridge that night and he spoke intelli-
gently.”
“But you yourself said, not ten
minutes ago, that this man was in a state
of delirium tremens up to der collision,”
said Mr. Meyer.
“What I said and what I will admit


108 Futility.
stock; and we insure against barratry;
but this man, as part owner, could not
fall back on it.”
“And an unlawful act,” went on Row-
land, “perpetrated by a captain who is
part owner, which might cause ship-
wreck, and, during the perpetration of
which ship-wreck really occurs, will be
sufficient to void the policy.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Meyer, eagerly;
“you were drunk on der look-out—you
were raving drunk, as he said himself.
You will swear to this, will you not, my
friend? It is bad faith with der under-
writers. It annuls der insurance. You
admit this, Mr. Thompson, do you not?"
“That is law,” said the attorney
coldly.
“Was Mr. Austen a part owner, also,”
asked Rowland, ignoring Mr. Meyer's
view of the case.
“One share, is it not, Mr. Austen?”
asked Mr. Meyer, while he rubbed his


II.4 Futility.
say Indian-hemp? I have a witness
now, Mr. Thompson. Go right on with
your suit. You hear him, Captain Barry.
You are disinterested. You are a wit-
ness. You hear?”
“Yes, I heard it—the murdering
scoundrel,” said the Captain.
Mr. Meyer danced up and down in his
joy, while the attorney, pocketing his
notes, remarked to the discomfited Cap-
tain Bryce: “You are the poorest fool
I know,” and left the office.
Then Mr. Meyer calmed himself, and
facing the two steamship officers, said,
slowly and impressively, while he poked
his fore-finger almost into their faces:
“England is a fine country, my friends
—a fine country to leave pehind some-
times. Dere is Canada, and der United
States, and Australia, and South Africa
—all fine countries, too—fine countries
to go to with new names. My friends,
you will be bulletened and listed at


Futility. I 19
“Yes, he would have been a poor man.
He had invested his last farthing—one
hundred thousand pounds. And if he
had left any more it would be assessed
to make good his share of what der com-
pany must bay for der ‘Royal Age,'
which I also insured.”
“Was there a collision clause in the
Titan's policy?"
“Dere was.”
“And you took the risk, knowing that
she was to run the Northern Lane at full
speed through fog and snow?”
“I did—so did others.”
“Then, Mr. Meyer, it remains for me
to tell you that the insurance on the
‘Titan’ will be paid, as well as any liabil-
ities included in and specified by the
collision clause in the policy. In short,
I, the one man who can prevent it, re-
fuse to testify.”
“VWhat-a-t?”
Mr. Meyer grasped the back of a chair
and leaning over it, stared at Rowland.


Futility. - I 2 I
“Yes, open it,” repeated Captain
Barry, his puzzled face clearing at the
prospect of action on his part. “Open
it or I'll kick it down.”
“But you, mine friend – heard der
admission of der Captain – of der
drugging. One goot witness will do:
two is petter. But you will swear, mine
friend. You will not ruin me.”
“I stand by Rowland,” said the Cap-
tain grimly. “I don't remember what
was said anyhow; got a blamed bad
memory. Get away from that door.”
Grevious lamentation — weepings and
wailings, and the most genuine gnashing
of teeth – interspersed with the feebler
cries of the frightened Myra and punctu-
ated by terse commands in regard to the
door, filled that private office, to the
wonder of the clerks without, and ended,
at last, with the crashing of the door
from its hinges.
Captain Barry, Rowland and Myra,


Futility. 127
from me, will you? It's none o' my
business, but you're too all-fired good a
man to drink. You haven't had a nip
for two months. Are you going to be-
gin?”
*
“Never again,” said Rowland, rising;
“I’ve a future now, as well as a past.”


CHAPTER XIV.
It was near noon of the next day that
Rowland, seated in a steamer-chair with
Myra and looking out on a sail-spangled
stretch of blue from the saloon-deck of a
west-bound liner, remembered that he
had made no provisions to have Mrs.
Selfridge notified by cable of the safety
of her child; and unless Mr. Meyer or
his associates gave the story to the press
it would not be known.
“Well,” he mused, “joy will not kill,
and I shall witness it in its fulness if I
take her by surprise. But the chances
are that it will get into the papers before
I reach her. It is too good for Mr.
Meyer to keep.”
But the story was not given out im-
mediately. Mr. Meyer called a confer-
ence of the under-writers concerned with
him in the insurance of the “Titan” at


130 Futility.
—blazoned out in the great dailies of
England and the Continent, and was
cabled to New York, with the name of
the steamer in which John Rowland had
sailed (for his movements had been
traced in the search for evidence), where
it arrived, too late for publication, the
morning of the day on which, with Myra
on his shoulder, he stepped down the
gang-plank at a North River dock. As
a consequence, he was surrounded on
the dock by enthusiastic reporters, who
spoke of the story and asked for details.
He refused to talk, escaped them, and
gaining the side streets, soon found him-
self in crowded Broadway, where he
entered the office of the steam-ship com-
pany in whose employ he had been
wrecked, and secured from the “Titan’s”
passenger-list, the address of Mrs. Self-
ridge – the only woman saved. Then
he took a car up Broadway and alighted
abreast of a large department store.


I32 Futility.
An hour later, penniless again, he
emerged from the store with Myra,
bravely dressed in her new finery, and
was stopped at the corner by a policeman
who had seen him come out, and who
marveled, doubtless, at such juxtaposi-
tion of rags and ribbons.
“Whose kid ye got,” he demanded.
“I believe it is the daughter of Mrs.
Colonel Selfridge,” answered Rowland,
haughtily – too haughtily, by far.
“Ye believe – but ye don't know.
Come back into the shtore, me tourist;
an' we'll see who ye shtole it from.”
“Very well, Officer; I can prove pos-
session.” They started back, the officer
with his hand on Rowland's collar, and
were met at the door by a party of three
or four people coming out. One of this
party, a young woman in black, uttered a
piercing shriek and sprang toward them.
“Myra,” she screamed; “give me my
baby — give her to me.”


134 Futility.
Then, while an approving crowd ap-
plauded, the man who had fought and
conquered a hungry polar bear was
dragged through the streets like a sick
animal by a New York policeman. For
such is the stultifying effect of a civilized
environment.


138 Futility.
Atlantic, where he had followed my
daughter in the guise of a sailor, he at-
tempted to murder that child – my
grand-child; but was discovered —”
“Wait,” interrupted the magistrate.
“Confine your testimony to the present
offence.”
“Yes, your Honor. Failing in this, he
stole, or enticed the little one from its
bed, and in less than five minutes, the
ship was wrecked, and he must have
escaped with the child in — ”
“Were you a witness of this?”
“I was not there, your Honor; but we
have it on the word of the first officer, a
gentleman — ”
“Step down, sir. That will do. Of-
ficer, was this offence committed in New
York?”
“Yes, your Honor; I caught him me-
Self.”
“Who did he steal the child from?”
“That leddy over yonder.”


Futility. I4 I
Here her testimony ended in a break-
down of hysterics, between sobs of which
were frequent admonitions to the child
not to say that bad word; for Myra had
caught sight of Rowland and was calling
his nick-name.
“What ship-wreck was this — where
was it?” asked the puzzled magistrate of
nobody in particular.
“The ‘Titan,’” called out half a dozen
newspaper men across the room.
“The Titan,’” repeated the magis-
trate; “then this offence was committed
on the high seas under the English flag.
I cannot imagine why it is brought into
this court. Prisoner, have you anything
to say?”
“Nothing, your Honor.” The answer
came in a kind of dry sob.
The magistrate scanned the ashen-
faced man in rags, and said to the clerk
of the court: “Change this charge to
vagrancy – eh — ”


I42 Futility.
The clerk, instigated by the newspaper
men, was at his elbow. He laid a morn-
ing paper before him, pointed to certain.
big letters and retired. Then the busi-
ness of the court suspended while the
court read the news. After a moment
or two the magistrate looked up.
“Prisoner,” he said sharply; “take
your left sleeve out of your breast!”
Rowland obeyed mechanically, and it
dangled at his side. The magistrate
noticed, and read on. Then he folded
the paper and said:
“You are the man who was rescued
from an ice-berg, are you not?” The
prisoner bowed his head.
“Discharged!” The word came forth
in an unjudicial roar. “Madam,” added
the magistrate, with a kindling light in
his eye; “this man has merely saved your
child's life. If you will read of his de-
fending it from a polar bear when you
go home, I doubt that you will tell it any