Most of us rolled out of bed the next morning, and the only reason some
of us did not fall to the floor was because the bureaus stopped us half
way, with many a resounding thud. Many of the party did not attempt to
get up or out of the staterooms. Will we ever forget the dining tables
equipped with metal railings, divided into sections to hold in the
dishes? Even then, the eggs and cream rolled over the cloth or into our
unreceptive laps, and the way the waiters moistened the cloth in the
spots where they set the water glasses in an attempt to make them stay
put. But they would not any more than our tummies would "stay put."

We then appreciated the necessity of the railings all over the ship,
especially when we commenced to hit each side of the passage way in
trying to step forward. Edward C. Wagner was jestingly remarking to
Louis Glass that if he should fall, there would be broken "Glass." It
was but a short while afterward when an unexpected lurch of the ship
threw him to the deck, breaking his glasses.

We all remember that the deck chairs had an unpleasant way of sliding
until they hit the opposite wall, bouncing out the sea-sick occupants.
Even in getting out of the chairs (tied to the railings) many of us
fell. The upper deck looked like the ward of an emergency hospital. Mrs.
A. F. Morrison had fallen, breaking a bone in her wrist, Mrs. E.
Dinkelspiel had her head injured, Louis Glass had a bandage over his cut
face, and scarcely anyone escaped without black and blue marks.

To see one of our capitalists being led weakly by a strong attendant,
while grasping his mal de mer tin firmly, was a sight unnoticed, in the
tumult of rushing waves. Of course, all portholes were closed, two of
the crew narrowly escaped being washed overboard. Their spotless uniform
of white had long since been discarded for rain coats and high boots.