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At eight o'clock they started
blowing the fog-horn every half-minute, and while the fog-horn was
sounding you couldn't hear yourself speak. However, all the
programmes were printed, and it was our last night on board, so they
concluded to have the concert all the same. Down we all trooped into
the saloon, and each item of that programme was punctuated by the
stentorian BOO of the fog-horn every thirty seconds. You never heard
anything so cute as the way it came in, right on time. A man with a
deep bass voice sang ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP, and each time
he reached the refrain, 'And calm and peaceful is my sle-eep,' BOO
went the fog-horn, casting a certain amount of doubt on our
expectations of peaceful sleep that night, anyway. Then a man with a
sweet tenor sang OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT, and the fog-horn showed us
just how oft, namely, every thirty seconds. But the queerest effect
of all was when a girl had to play a piano-forte solo. It was
something of Chopin's, full of runs and trills and little silvery
notes.


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