my book-shelves. Possum, crawling upward from my feet under the
covered way of my bed, yapped with terror as the seas smashed and
thundered and as the avalanche of books descended upon us. And I
could not but grin when the Paste Board Crown smote me on the head,
while the puppy was knocked gasping with Chesterton's What's Wrong
with the World?

"Well, what do you think?" I queried of the steward who was helping
to set us and the books to rights.

He shrugged his shoulders, and his bright slant eyes were very bright
as he replied:

"Many times I see like this. Me old man. Many times I see more bad.
Too much wind, too much work. Rotten dam bad."

I could guess that the scene on deck was a spectacle, and at six
o'clock, as gray light showed through my ports in the intervals when
they were not submerged, I essayed the side-board of my bunk like a
gymnast, captured my careering slippers, and shuddered as I thrust my
bare feet into their chill sogginess. I did not wait to dress.
Merely in pyjamas I headed for the poop, Possum wailing dismally at
my desertion.

It was a feat to travel the narrow halls. Time and again I paused
and held on until my finger-tips hurt. In the moments of easement I
made progress. Yet I miscalculated. The foot of the broad stairway
to the chart-house rested on a cross-hall a dozen feet in length.
Over-confidence and an unusually violent antic of the Elsinore caused
the disaster. She flung down to starboard with such suddenness and