A bad night--equally bad for the Elsinore and for me. She is
receiving a sharp buffeting at the hands of the wintry North
Atlantic. I fell asleep early, exhausted from lack of sleep, and
awoke in an hour, frantic with my lumped and burning skin. More
cream of tartar, more reading, more vain attempts to sleep, until
shortly before five, when the steward brought me my coffee, I wrapped
myself in my dressing-gown, and like a being distracted prowled into
the cabin. I dozed in a leather chair and was thrown out by a
violent roll of the ship. I tried the sofa, sinking to sleep
immediately, and immediately thereafter finding myself precipitated
to the floor. I am convinced that when Captain West naps on the sofa
he is only half asleep. How else can he maintain so precarious a
position?--unless, in him, too, the sea and its motion be ingrained.
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