slayer of many lions; if you don't catch her—well, there are some possibilities too shiverish to think about.

Of course the kind of steamship-hunting I mean is the game instituted by the big newspapers in such a case as that of La Gascogne, when recently she was eleven days overdue from Havre because one of her piston-heads broke down. This game is played with a tug-boat, a full equipment of night-glasses, and a great amount of patience. Just think of how important the results are! Within the circuit of New York, Boston, Buffalo, and Washington—the territory wherein New York newspapers are chiefly taken—there are at least ten millions of readers, all anxious for every scrap of news of the missing ship. Hundreds of these people have friends or relatives on board, but every one of the vast number is equally eager to hear of the ship's safe arrival, and all about the reason for her lateness.

If the lion-hunter's rifle misses fire he loses his life, but if the steamship-hunter misses his game he loses most of his good name and all of his employment. Imagine, then, the studious skill he devotes to sweeping the wide field of ocean with his glasses. He knows that half a dozen other tug-loads of reporters are out on the same errand, and that if any of them "beat" him he'd better sail right down into Davy Jones's locker and lock it from the inside.

The tug of a New York paper went down to the Quarantine Station at Staten Island on that very cold Friday evening three days before La Gascogne was heard from. She was then eight days overdue. Three reporters and an artist were aboard the tug. They called at the telegraph office at Quarantine, and learned that nothing had been heard of the French ship from Sandy Hook or Fire Island. The only thing to do was to go down to the entrance of the Harbor and wait and hope—especially hope. Just before the steamship-hunters left the snug warm telegraph office the instruments began to sputter. The operator in the Sandy Hook tower was saying,

"Wind blowing fifty-six miles an hour from the N. W."

Two wise men, who had been to sea a few times, insisted on staying several miles inside of Sandy Hook, but the other man insisted a great deal harder on going. Off we went after a very short debate. The wind rattled the pilot-house windows, and if the door fell ajar a moment the breeze nearly whipped it off and blew it away. The bay was covered with floating ice. There were some cakes almost as big as a city block, and some looked tiny enough to put in a glass of water; but most of them were as long and wide as the deck of a big canal-boat. Every time one of the big fellows crunched against our bow we couldn't help wondering whether it was coming through. The moon flooded the vast field of white, and made it look as if we were sailing over a great prairie. Now and then we came to patches of clear blue water, and these danced in the moon's rays like giant turquoises. The tug's condensed steam rolled and bounded along, seeming like great masses of ivory. The intense cold caused this curious effect. Everything was fairylike, except the harsh grinding and cannonlike thumps of the ice.

Off the point of Sandy Hook we were almost clear of ice. Nobody could see anything that looked like a steamship coming from the eastward. The ice had kept the water quiet, but here in the open it was heaving and pitching under the lash of the gale. We ran into the Horseshoe inside of Sandy Hook, trying to get up to the landing, so that if we had very late news to send we could telegraph it from Sandy Hook, instead of Quarantine, which was an hour to the north of us. Ice was packed and jammed so thick and tight inside the Horseshoe that not even an icicle could be pushed into it. After our tug narrowly escaped being caught and held fast for the night we backed out. No use trying to land.

"Mast-head light to the east'd!" sang out our skipper as we rounded the point of the Hook. Has your heart ever begun to dance at the sight of a school of bluefish when you were running down toward them with four squids trailing from your cat-boat? Have you ever heard a deer come crashing through the thicket toward your rifle? Imagine us, then, when we heard those words. Every man whipped out a night-glass, or waited eagerly for his neighbor's. A speck of yellow light on the horizon crawled slowly up the blue sky.

"She's a liner," said our captain. "The ice and the hurricane have sent all the channel buoys adrift" (you know the ship channel is lighted with electric lamps like Fifth Avenue), "so her pilot will anchor outside."

Away went the tug at full speed. The yellow mast-head light kept growing higher, like a meteor going backward. Soon we could distinguish the dim white shape of a giant steamship. As she came nearer we saw that she was ice-coated from the water-line to one hundred feet above the deck. The lights glowed and twinkled out of the cabin ports like the candles shining out of the white churches we used to have when we were little boys. The big ship anchored not far from the Sandy Hook Lightship (six miles out on the Atlantic). Our Captain knew her for the Teutonic as readily as you would know your father in the street. On account of the high waves we dared not go within one hundred feet, for fear of being dashed against the steamship's side. Our tug's bow swung up in the wind, and we began a conversation with the officer on the Teutonic's bridge, our words shooting back and forth across fifty yards of icy wind that sped between us at the rate of fifty-six miles an hour. The Teutonic had no news of La Gascogne.

On that Monday afternoon when the telegraph-operator in Fire Island tower reported the missing Gascogne approaching his station, our tug started out again. The many weary and fruitless nights of watching and cruising were all forgotten. The searchers hurried through dinner in the galley, and drank big mugs of coffee in gulps. Every one was too happy to stay long at anything. I never knew the distance between the Battery and the outer light-ship to be so long. From here, at last, we spied a glimmer of red on the sky-line. If enthusiasm burned, there wouldn't have been a lens left in one of those glasses. Men perched on the top of the pilot-house to see better.

"That's the Gascogne—three red lights at the mast-head—going under repairs," cried the mate, from the loftiest perch.

ONE OF THE NERVE-TICKLING DETAILS OF THE HUNT.

Every minute dragged outrageously until we got alongside of the steamship. Nothing in her appearance except the three red lights indicated that anything was wrong. She was moving slowly—only eight miles an hour. We ran under her stern, and got alongside her lee bow. Groups of passengers gathered along the rails, although it was now very near midnight. They cheered the men who came so far to welcome them. An officer on the bridge told of the accident in a dozen words. Through one of the ports we could see a blue-jacketed steward polishing a plate.

"Has Faure formed a cabinet yet?" shouted one passenger.

The answer we gave him was lost in the chorus of cheers. Some one weighted a copy of the ship's log, and threw it aboard our tug.

But while all this was very pleasant, it was not enough. The ship's officers promised to lower a companion-ladder for our men to go aboard.

A long wait. No ladder. Our own skipper solved the problem by ordering his men to throw up a twenty-foot wooden ladder—a fragile thing. Such roars in English and counter-roars in French as there were while that ladder was being arranged!

"Take a couple of bights of that line, and make it fast on the third rung, you three-fingered blacksmith!" yelled our