"TIME brings all things"

Fakery

In the Bronx (New York City borough) lives a Mrs. Jean Sagerman, furrier's young wife. To her apartment last week came a man. Mrs. Sagerman listened to the man explain that he was a doctor and that her husband had sent him to give her a physical examination. She submitted to it. Said the man: "Your circulation is very poor. I'm afraid you'll have to take an extra hot bath before I can make a thoroughly satisfactory examination." Mrs. Sagerman hid her $1,000 engagement ring and $19.40 under a pillow. When she came from the bath, money, ring & doctor were gone. "He was a fake!" cried she angrily to police. Other Bronx women, made bold by her complaint, admitted that the rascal had duped them similarly.

Boats

At the time of night when watchdogs bark at a thought, a dream, waking farmers to a remembrance of grief, there winds through Manhattan the sound of boat horns. To those who grope for sleep in the darkness before dawn, they are hounds baying a gigantic sorrow, whining the threat of a remote doom. In the morning, sharp black noses sniff a zigzag scent across the harbor down the Hudson; the horns make cheerful yappings that in the dark, were the voices of a nightmare.

Sometimes, though, the gloom of this nocturnal-clamor is not false. Last week the Paris, big transatlantic steamer of the French Line, was churning softly down the harbor to the sea. Captain Yves Thomas steered past a line of wooden barges, humped like haymows on the water; wheeled his great ship to pass a steamer. AH he rounded it, he saw the lights of a Norwegian freighter, the Beesengen, riding at anchor. It was too late to swing the bow, too late to reverse his course. Shrill bells and whistles sounded as the bow of the Paris drove into the side of the dingy ship.

Passengers on the Paris, passengers on the ferries Brooklyn and American Legion later argued about what happened next. There were voices shouting a confusion of orders on the decks of the four boats; a woman on the Paris kept squealing: "Why don't you do something? If I was a man I. . . ."

Soon the Bessengen toppled into the dark water and sank. There had been 31 souls on board. Eight (the captain said seven) had been saved by the Paris, 13 by the American Legion; Captain Ludwig Hassell, his wife, daughter and dog, by the Brooklyn. Six men had disappeared. They were all Norwegians: a donkeyman, two firemen, a deckhand, an able-bodied seaman, a trimmer. Newspaper presses roared. The rescued told their different stories. Cables flashed from New York to Paris. The Norwegian consul started an investigation. The captain of the Brooklyn denied that his men did not know how to lower the boats. In the high towers of Manhattan people lay listening to the sad horns, like hounds, belling a far-away triumph.