N the spring of 1891, after having spent the month of February in a run through southern Italy with my photographic outfit, I had returned to Rome with ten days at my disposal before my train left for Naples, where I had taken my return passage for New York. I had arrived in the night, and after sleeping until a rather late hour in the morning, had breakfasted in my room, so that it must have been something after ten o'clock when, camera in hand, I descended to the lobby of the hotel. After glancing at the register I seated myself before an open window and looked out on the modern Roman Concourse, with the comfortable indifference of an experienced traveller, whose itinerary is ir revocably fixed to his entire satisfaction. If I felt any personal anxiety it was in no degree disquieting, and related only to the artistic quality of the exposures I had made, and to the possibilities of the developments with which I proposed to electrify my fellow-amateurs of the Club on my return.

I was lazily considering where I should go for the day, in search of picturesque effects of light and shade nestling in environments suited to my taste, with entire indifference to, nay, even with a sort of professional contempt for, the historic monuments of the Eternal City, preferring a sleepy donkey in transparent half-lights, to the architectural glories of St. Peter's, when I realized that a figure had crossed the marble pavement and was standing at my side.

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger, in a pleasant voice; "you are Dr. Lattimer, of the Amateur Photographers' Society of New York. I am Philip Coe, of St. Louis. I saw your Japanese work last winter at the club's exhibition, and I am very glad to meet you."

Whereupon Mr. Philip Coe and I shook hands, exchanged cards, and sat down to an animated discussion of developers and solutions and improved lenses, as if we had been known to each other for years instead of for minutes. My new-found enthusiast was rather a handsome man, of rising thirty, a decided blond, of an easy and affable manner, unimpeachable costume, and having a clear gray eye which betokens that order of quick intelligence which forms conclusions intuitively and acts promptly-in short, a man who, to use an Americanism, rarely "gets left" in his combinations.

I am a particular admirer of that sort of man. I pride myself on keeping my faculties well in hand, such as they are, and acting in an emergency without any unnecessary delay. This similarity of temperament, then, together with similarity of pursuits, in our vacation time, commended Mr. Philip Coe, of St. Louis, to my esteem and approval, and his pleasant, unobtrusive ways lent themselves to the daily improvement of our agreeable relations during that week which we spent together in Rome. His collection of work was a very creditable one, and in the professional excursions we took together I was greatly impressed with the cleverness he evinced in seizing the happy instant in a moving composition, and the entire absence of that unfortunate hesitancy which too often renders the most experienced amateur a thought too late in his exposure. My companion was always perfectly cool, with plenty of nerve and no perceptible nerves, and I admired him for that distinguishing peculiarity.

He confided to me that he had been

interested in photography but little more than a year. Having concluded a remarkably successful operation in stocks, he had retired from active business, and come abroad for the undisturbed enjoyment of his new fad, in which he was

ambitious to distinguish himself; and when he returned to America, he should rely on my friendly offices to make him a member of the New York Society.

I had arranged to return to Naples to take my steamer, and to go down leisurely by rail the day before she sailed. Philip Coe had set no definite time for his return to America, but would be off in a few days for a flying visit to Algeria, and then it was his purpose to push up into Polish Russia for part of the summer. At all events, with his admirable photographic outfit and his professional enthusiasm, I expect ed great things of his summer's work, which he would bring home before the winter meetings of the Society. He was altogether such a cool customer, so full of resource and tact and cleverness, that I had no fear for him on the burning sands of Africa or among the petty civil officers of the Czar, and I only ventured to advise him to avoid the neighborhood of military works as he would shun the plague.

On the evening before we separated, as we were lingering together over a last bottle of Asti Spumanti in the Trattorea Fiorelli, which had come to be a favorite resort in our wanderings about Rome, my companion said: "By the way, Doctor, one never knows what those Muscovite officials may do in the way of seizing on a man's valuables. I have a paper in my pocket which I would be obliged to you if you would take charge of until I see you in New York." He searched the paper out from among others in his pocket-book and passed it over to me. La padrona brought an envelope in which I sealed up the paper, and Philip Coe wrote his name and the date across the end of the package, and soon after we turned out of No. 4 Via Colonnetti and made our way in the moonlight across the Corso and through the quaint streets leading to our hotel.

On the following day but one, I boarded the Utopia at Naples en route for New York. The prospective passage was not wildly entrancing, with only seventeen cabin passengers on board and more than eight hundred emigrants in the steerage.

We had fair weather and an unevent

ful passage until the afternoon of Tuesday, March 17th, when the ship began to labor heavily against head-winds and high seas. Despite the rain which was driving in our teeth, I kept the deck until the great mass of Gibraltar loomed vaguely through the thick atmosphere off our starboard bow, and then, learning that the captain had decided to stand into the harbor and lie by until morning, I retired to my cabin. It was now growing dark, but the lights were burning in the gangways and all was quiet below decks. I hoped the sky would clear by morning, so that I could try my camera on the famous fortress as well as on some of the English ironclads at anchor in the harbor.

The bullseyes were closed, and the spume and spray were so thick outside that nothing could be seen beyond the streaming glass, and although the ship trembled from stem to stern as she labored against wind and current, I had such implicit confidence in the skill of her officers and crew that I stretched myself on my berth with something of the comfortable feeling of a man before a glowing fire listening to the rain beating on the roof and to the wind howling in the chimney. My eye fell on the particular leather bag in which I had packed my precious, undeveloped negatives, standing on the floor over against the side of the ship, and lulled by the music of the storm, my imagination was revelling in the gradual development of the latent images imprisoned on the surfaces of those magical dry plates. The atmosphere of my state-room was more than comfortably warm, and I had removed my shoes and outer clothing the more perfectly to yield myself to the luxury of my surroundings. laboring of the ship was indicated by such regularity of beating against headseas, and such a soothing monotony of shivering throes that, when a thud broke the uniformity of sound followed by an entire change of motion and scurrying of feet on the deck above, I sprang out of my berth thoroughly alarmed, opened my door, and stepped into the gangway. I had caught up

The

a heavy storm ulster, and turning this about me as I ascended to the deck, regardless of my stockinged feet, I

looked out into the pelting rain. The blanched face of one of the officers as he hurried past me into the spume, which rendered objects at a few paces invisible, confirmed my worst fears, and going quickly to the side of the ship, which was for the moment ominously steady, I looked over the rail. By instinct or by accident, I had arrived directly over the point of contact where the invisible monster had pierced the side of the Utopia, and indistinct as my vision was, I could see a vast dark cavity in the hull into which the whole broad side of the sea was pouring like a maelstrom. It may have been three minutes after the first shock of the collision, and while I moved forward by an instinct of repulsion from the inflowing torrent, when I thought I felt a perceptible settling of the ship. In the direction of what I believed to be the shore, a wet light made a soft yellowish spot in the blanket of spray. I remember with awful distinctness the sounds that greeted my ears, in which the throb of the engines had no part, and the thoughts that flashed through my brain while my eyes were fixed on the warmth of that vague light. A babel of terrified voices rose from between decks, dulled in volume by the wind and rain. There was a sharp rattle like the passing of wheels, for which I can suggest no explanation, and suddenly I seemed to see the clear gray eyes of Philip Coe fixed on mine.

There was another movement of the deck under my feet, I swung myself to the starboard rail by the foremast shrouds, and plunged outward into the

sea.

I remember the cold, strangling shock as my body struck the water, the prickling sensation in my nose, the utter blackness instead of the usual cool green color of the sea as I looked about me with wide-open eyes, while for an instant I stood upright, poised in its depth, and then the buoyant sensation of rising to the surface, which I hastened by a familiar movement of the hands. As my head popped above the water a blinding sheet of spray struck me in the face like a whip-lash. Remembering that the ship had been steaming against a head-wind, blowing from nearly due east, I laid my

course to the right across that of the wind, and turning my face away from the blowing spray, I swam with an easy stroke in what I believed to be the direction of the shore. It was a scudding rather than a high sea, and with the back of my head laid over against the gusts of salt spume, I could breathe easily and had perfect confidence in my ability to sustain myself for a half-hour, if I could hold out so long against the chilling influence of the March sea. I was so little disturbed in mind, that I distinctly remember the grotesque thought coming to me for the first time, that the day was the famous anniversary of St. Patrick. I thought I heard the splash of someone swimming behind me, but it was now so dark that I could scarcely see my length into the scud and gloom. I called twice, but got no answer. I had either been mistaken or the other unfortunate had yielded to the waves, and gone down to a watery grave at the bottom of that treacherous sea. The thought was anything but reassuring, and as I already began to feel the benumbing effect of the cold, I inflated my lungs to their utmost and kicked my feet together to keep up circulation.

Suddenly a strong light shot over the water from my right, defining a broad bar across the mist, and by the time I had turned to swim in that direction, a still brighter light shot out from the very course I had abandoned. I knew that these were search-lights from the English iron-clads at anchor in the roadstead. The friendly bars of light shifted about and increased in number, and desperate as my situation was, brought to mind the bars of electric light lying out from the tower of Madison Square Garden on election night. Under their combined influence the surface of the sea took on a ghostly illumination, enabling me to look about me for some distance, although I could discern nothing in the direction whence the lights came. Just then I again heard the puffing of the swimmer behind me. I looked over my shoulder. A horribly black head protruded above the water, set with two gleaming eyes which suggested some sea-monster rather than a fellow-man. In another moment I recognized it as the head of a dog, and when

presently it came alongside as if craving human help, or at least human companionship, I found myself in the company of a huge Newfoundland. His great brown eyes were full of appealing light, and turned on me as if he would have licked my face. I threw my arm over his neck, and called him "old chap," and I am sure we both felt better after that exchange of civilities. Stupid fellow that he was, he seemed to think that a little of my weight thrown across his shaggy shoulders insured his safety, and I felt that while I accepted his help for the time being, an opportunity would soon come when my good offices would be a sufficient return therefor. It was no longer a question of swimming only, but of endurance against the benumbing sea. I felt that I was growing weak. I knew my companion would endure the cold longer than I could. A strong current was drifting us along under the brightest bar of light. I thought I saw something of the hull and spars of a great ship close in front of us. I cried aloud for help. I hooked my arm more tightly about the neck of the dog. I thought I saw a movement close upon us and then I lost consciousness, overcome by the cold and exertion. I felt no sense of giving up or yielding to despair, but rather that I was falling into the arms of some mysterious power to which I shifted all responsibility, so that, when I returned to consciousness, I was not in the least surprised to find myself snugly tucked away in a bunk of H. M. S. Camperdown. My first inquiry was for the fate of my swimming mate, who spoke for himself, projecting his great paws on the bed and making various dumb signs of joy at my awakening. The delightful sense of warmth enveloping body and brain seemed to represent the sum of all earthly bliss, and I straightway fell off into a deep sleep which lasted for twelve hours, so that, when I awoke again it was late in the day following the disaster, and the small proportion of the rescued to the number of souls on board the ill-fated ship, was already cared for.

A rather nondescript suit of clothing lay across the foot of my bunk, consisting in part of a pair of sailor's blue trousers, a steamer cap, and a coat and

vest of pepper-and-salt mixture, each garment in its own humorous way contributing to the totality of a rather ludicrous misfit. As I made my way to the gun-deck, accompanied by the stately Newfoundland, and into the presence of her Majesty's officers, chagrin at my personal appearance nearly overcame that more becoming sense of gratitude due to my deliverers.

I had little time or inclination to think of my losses until after I had been ashore on on the following morning, and telegraphed in a roundabout way to New York for funds. First of all, and most deplorable, there were my precious negatives stowed away in the leather bag, only so many pieces of worthless glass. A clear actinic light, such as I delighted to operate in, bathed the straggling town lying under the great honeycombed rock, and sparkled on the now placid harbor where the vessels of the Channel fleet rode at anchor; but, alas! my camera was at the bottom of the sea. The main spars of the Utopia were just showing above the wreck, about which there was a congregation of boats, and divers were busily searching for bodies.

As I looked, later in the day, from the bridge of the Camperdown across the water to this scene of submarine industry, the thought of the scrap of paper committed to my care by Philip Coe, came for the first time to my mind, and I remembered that I had placed the envelope in the leather bag with the negatives. I would at least make an effort to rescue this property of my friend, and I turned away in search of the officer of the deck. I had no money to employ a diver for this service, but just here several of her Majesty's young officers came to my aid, and not caring myself to pay a personal visit to the ghastly scenes about the wreck, the very obliging officers despatched a messenger, to whom I furnished in writing the number of my state-room, together with the location and a description of the bag containing the negatives, which was successfully

recovered.

The action of the salt-water on the envelope had been such that directly it was exposed to the sun it opened of itself, the triangular lap curling up slow

ly as if it had been some species of shellfish, and to hasten the process of drying I took out the inclosure and spread it on the deck. It was simply a receipt for a package left at the office of the Astor House in New York, to be delivered to the bearer whose name was written across the sealed opening of the package aforesaid. This was the gist of the statement contained in a somewhat more elaborate printed form.

I remained on board the Camperdown just long enough to complete the process of drying, reseal the envelope, indorsed by Philip Coe, pitch my precious negatives into the sea, and all hope of triumph at the club along with them, kick the sodden bag under a gun carriage, and confer on my dog the highsounding and warlike name of Camperdown, in return for the hospitality of her Majesty's gallant officers. The bestowal of the name was a parting impulse of gratitude which was all the return I could make for my generous entertainment and my ill-fitting clothes, and directly thereafter, Camperdown and my more insignificant self were piped over the side of her Majesty's ironclad and rowed in great state to the steamer provided by the Anchor line to convey the survivors of the wreck to Liverpool, where we should meet the Furnessia bound for New York.

Ar Liverpool I found funds awaiting me in response to my telegram from Gibraltar, and as I had four days on my hands before the departure of the Furnessia, having secured my cabin I concluded to run up to London and refit. After purchasing my railway ticket I telegraphed Philip Coe of my arrival in Liverpool, and informed him that the paper he had committed to my care was still in my custody.

Every newspaper account of the loss of the Utopia had mentioned my name and that of the Newfoundland dog as the sole survivors among the cabin passengers of that ill-fated ship, and Camperdown and I were the acknowledged heroes of that newspaper week. I was satisfied that my friend was aware of

my existence, and I only wished to apprise him of the safety of his bit of property.

As soon as I had inscribed my name on the register of my hotel at London the clerk handed me a telegram, and as I smoothed it out on the office counter, he remarked, with surprising loquacity for one of his kind, "That's a rawther long wire, Doctor."

The telegram was rather long, for a man without any luggage, and not overwell dressed at that, but it was from Coe, who was profuse in his congratulations on my safety and, with his characteristic modesty, not a word was said about the paper he had committed to my care for safe-keeping.

I have neglected to state that before leaving Liverpool I had placed Camperdown in the care of the steward on board the Furnessia, making every provision for his security and comfort. We had become such great friends, on short acquaintance, that I am free to confess that, on my part, the parting was a serious one, and as I looked into his great wondering eyes as the steward held him back by his chain, I felt that I was leaving behind a creature almost human in his affection, for whom I felt something nearer to love than I at present attached to any other man, woman, or dog in the world.

As I seated myself in my compartment of the London and Liverpool train, absolutely empty-handed, without so much as an umbrella or an extra coat, I felt the momentary shock of the man who has forgotten something; and then the absurdity of my situation, in its humorous aspect, forced itself upon me. My elaborate photographic outfit, and every change of clothing I had possessed were at the bottom of the sea, and there I sat (I stood to one side for the moment regarding my real self as an amusing outside entity of the third person), a man who would be known at sight for an American going up to London in a first-class carriage, as it were, sucking his thumbs. I felt an uncomfortable desire to clutch something, and so it came about that I wandered out to the platform and fastened to a novel to bear me company.

On my return I observed that an el