iS) 
Ldle Days in Patagonia. 
eighty years old, was lying in his cabin sick unto 
death, for, as a fact, he died not many days after 
our mishap; our one mate was asleep, leaving 
only the men to navigate the steamer on that 
perilous coast, and in the darkest hour of a tem- 
pestuous night. 
I was just dropping into a doze when a succes- 
sion of bumps, accompanied by strange grating 
and grinding noises, and shuddering motions of the 
ship, caused me to start up again and rush to the 
cabin door. The night was still black and starless, 
with wind and rain, but for acres round us the sea 
was whiter than milk. I did not step out; close 
to me, half-way between my cabin door and the 
bulwarks, where our only boat was fastened, three 
of the sailors were standing together talking in low 
tones. ‘We are lost,’ I heard one say; and 
another answer, “‘ Ay, lost for ever!”’ Just then 
the mate, roused from sleep, came running to 
them. ‘‘ Good God, what have you done with the 
steamer!”’ he exclaimed sharply; then, dropping 
his voice, he added, ‘* Lower the boat—quick!”’ 
I crept out and stood, unseen by them in the 
obscurity, within five feet of the group. Not a 
thought of the dastardly character of the act they 
were about to engage in—for it was their intention 
to save themselves and leave us to our fate— 
entered my mind at the time. My only thought 
was that at the last moment, when they would be 
unable to prevent it except by knocking me sense- 
less, I would spring with them into the boat and 
