Shakespeare runnin' neck an' neck, an' what's left of Anti-Christ
makin' a bad last. An' there's Carlyle and Zola that cheek by jowl
you can't tell 'em apart."

Here the Elsinore lay down to starboard, and the water in the
forecastle poured out against my legs and hips. My wet mittens
slipped on the iron work, and I swept down the runway into the
scuppers, where I was turned over and over by another flood that had
just boarded from windward.

I know I was rather confused, and that I had swallowed quite a deal
of salt water, ere I got my hands on the rungs of the ladder and
climbed to the top of the house. On my way aft along the bridge I
encountered the crew coming for'ard. Mr. Mellaire and Mr. Pike were
talking in the lee of the chart-house, and inside, as I passed below,
Captain West was smoking a cigar.

After a good rub down, in dry pyjamas, I was scarcely back in my bunk
with the Mind of Primitive Man before me, when the stampede over my
head was repeated. I waited for the second rush. It came, and I
proceeded to dress.

The scene on the poop duplicated the previous one, save that the men
were more excited, more frightened. They were babbling and
chattering all together.

"Shut up!" Mr. Pike was snarling when I came upon them. "One at a
time, and answer the captain's question."

"It ain't no barrel this time, sir," Tom Spink said. "It's alive.