the sailors and the captain. Frederick took his knife away from him,
spoke to him in a military tone, and unceremoniously touched a scar on
the rough fellow's hairy neck to recall to him the fact that he had
already sewed one knife wound, from which he had barely escaped with his
life. That worked, and Wilke seemed to be repentant. Frederick gave him
some money, but not for whisky, as he told him, and added he would try
his best for him, but only if he heard that he had been behaving like
a decent human being.




XVII


The physicians ascended on deck again. On breathing in the ocean's pure
breath after the foul odours of the steerage, Frederick felt as if he had
escaped from a hideous, suffocating hell.

With difficulty they made their way across the wet, empty deck, ever and
again washed by waves sweeping overboard. To keep their footing they had
to cling to the railing. Not a soul was on deck. The ship, restlessly
rolling and pounding, seemed to have been left to fight its fight alone.
But this was an awful scene that relieved and refreshed Frederick.

He went to the ladies' parlour, there to read the letter from home,
which he had nearly forgotten. A few women, who were not seasick, were
scattered through the room, lolling in their chairs in a state of limp
exhaustion. The saloon smelled of plush and varnish. It was decorated
with a number of mirrors in gold frames, there was a grand piano, and the