Then she sprang suddenly to her feet, and threw the book
on the deck.
'Who is it will take the telegrams?' she asked the steward.
'The mate, miss. There he is standing yonder, miss.'
She made her way quickly to that official.
'Will you take a cable despatch to be sent to New York?'
'Yes, miss. Is it a very long one?' he asked.
'Yes, it is a very long one.'
'Well, miss,' was the answer, 'you haven't much time to write it. We
leave now in a very few minutes.'
'It is all written out; I have only to add a few words to it.'
Miss Brewster at once flew to her state-room. The telegram about the mine
was soon before her with the words counted, and the silver and gold that
were to pay for it piled on the table. She resolved to run no risk of
delay by having the message sent 'to collect.' Then she dashed off, as
quickly as she could, a brief and very graphic account of the disaster
which had overtaken the _Caloric_. If this account was slightly
exaggerated, Miss Brewster had no time to tone it down. Picturesque and
dramatic description was what she aimed at. Her pen flew over the paper
with great rapidity, and she looked up every now and then, through her
state-room window, to see dangling from the ropes the boat that was to
make the attempt to reach the Irish coast. As she could thus see how the
preparations for the departure were going forward, she lingered longer
than she might otherwise have done, and added line after line to the
despatch which told of the disaster.
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