“Do you ever walk in your sleep?” he continued.
“Not to my knowledge—why?”
“Because last night some one came and hammered on my cabin door, and shouted, ‘The ship’s aground.’ What do you think it can have been?” he asked with a frightful face.
“I think there is no doubt that it was the hot tinned lobster you had for supper,” I answered promptly.
“No, no, no, it was not a dream—it woke me,” he returned. “I thought it was you. Then I tried to think it was a nightmare, and had almost brought myself to believe it, and was dropping off to sleep, when a cold, cold wet hand was passed slowly across my face;” and he shuddered violently.
“Lobster!” I repeated emphatically.
“No, no. Oh, Mr. Lawrence, I heard moaning and whispering and praying. I’m afraid to sleep in that cabin alone; may I come and share yours?”
“There is no room,” I answered, rather shortly. “The top berth is crammed full of my things.”
At breakfast there was a good deal of movement, and now and then a loud splash upon the deck. The captain, who had been tapping the barometer, looked unusually solemn, and said—
“We are in for a bit of dirty weather; unless I’m mistaken, there’s a cyclone somewhere about. I don’t think we shall do more than touch the edge of it, and this is a stout craft, so you need not be uneasy.”