I remember distinctly my delusion of the following day--Sunday. I
seemed to be no longer in the hospital. In some mysterious way I had
been spirited aboard a huge ocean liner. I first discovered this when
the ship was in mid-ocean. The day was clear, the sea apparently calm,
but for all that the ship was slowly sinking. And it was I, of course,
who had created the situation which must turn out fatally for all,
unless the coast of Europe could be reached before the water in the
hold should extinguish the fires. How had this peril overtaken us?
Simply enough: During the night I had in some way--a way still unknown
to me--opened a porthole below the water-line; and those in charge of
the vessel seemed powerless to close it. Every now and then I could
hear parts of the ship give way under the strain. I could hear the air
hiss and whistle spitefully under the resistless impact of the invading
waters; I could hear the crashing of timbers as partitions were
wrecked; and as the water rushed in at one place I could see, at
another, scores of helpless passengers swept overboard into the sea--my
unintended victims. I believed that I, too, might at any moment be
swept away. That I was not thrown into the sea by vengeful
fellow-passengers was, I thought, due to their desire to keep me alive
until, if possible, land should be reached, when a more painful death
could be inflicted upon me.

While aboard my phantom ship I managed in some way to establish an
electric railway system; and the trolley cars which passed the hospital
were soon running along the deck of my ocean liner, carrying passengers
from the places of peril to what seemed places of comparative safety at
the bow. Every time I heard a car pass the hospital, one of mine went
clanging along the ship's deck.