much like being mad, only it was worse because one was aware of it.

I had to shake him for a solid minute, but when at last he opened
his eyes it was in the full possession of his senses, with an
inquiring look.

"All's well so far," I whispered. "Now you must vanish into the
bath-room."

He did so, as noiseless as a ghost, and I then rang for the
steward, and facing him boldly, directed him to tidy up my
stateroom while I was having my bath--"and be quick about it." As
my tone admitted of no excuses, he said, "Yes, sir," and ran off to
fetch his dust-pan and brushes. I took a bath and did most of my
dressing, splashing, and whistling softly for the steward's
edification, while the secret sharer of my life stood drawn up bolt
upright in that little space, his face looking very sunken in
daylight, his eyelids lowered under the stern, dark line of his
eyebrows drawn together by a slight frown.

When I left him there to go back to my room the steward was
finishing dusting. I sent for the mate and engaged him in some
insignificant conversation. It was, as it were, trifling with the
terrific character of his whiskers; but my object was to give him
an opportunity for a good look at my cabin. And then I could at
last shut, with a clear conscience, the door of my stateroom and
get my double back into the recessed part. There was nothing else
for it. He had to sit still on a small folding stool, half
smothered by the heavy coats hanging there. We listened to the
steward going into the bath-room out of the saloon, filling the