To the post where I tied the foot-end of my hammock there were fastened
six other hammocks. Consequently seven pairs of feet were bound to
come into pretty close contact with each other. While I was lucky
enough to have the hammock closest to the rail, I was unlucky enough
to have as my next neighbour a woman; she was part Brazilian negro
and part Indian. She had her teeth filed sharp like shark's teeth,
wore brass rings in her ears, large enough to suspend portières from,
and smoked a pipe continually. I found later that it was a habit to
take the pipe to bed with her, so that she could begin smoking the
first thing in the morning. She used a very expensive Parisian perfume,
whether to mitigate the effects of the pipe or not, I do not know.

Under the conditions I have described I lay down in my hammock, but
found that sleep was impossible. There was nothing to do but resign
myself to Fate and find amusement, with all the philosophy possible,
by staring at the sky. I counted the stars over and over again and
tried to identify old friends among the constellations. Among them the
Southern Cross was a stranger to me, but the Great Dipper, one end
of which was almost hidden behind the trees, I recognised with all
the freedom of years of acquaintance. My mind went back to the last
time I had seen it; across the house-tops of old Manhattan it was,
and under what widely different conditions!

At last a merciful Providence closed my eyes and I was soon transported
by the arms of Morpheus to the little lake in Central Park that I had
liked so well. I dreamed of gliding slowly over the waters of that
placid lake, and awoke to find myself being energetically kicked in the
shins by my female neighbour. There was nothing to do but indulge in
a few appropriate thoughts on this community-sleeping-apartment life,