Passengers could not sleep that night. It was as much as they could do to hold on and keep their places in bed. Those on the upper berths were in danger of serious falls.
Rosemary, who shared Wynnette’s stateroom, and slept in the upper berth, let herself down by a series of difficult but successful gymnastics, and lay upon the sofa, trembling. Presently she crept to the door, opened it a little way, and peeped into the cabin. The place was quiet, the doors of the other staterooms all closed, and no one present but the local night watchman, sitting composedly by the single light.
She closed the door, crept back to the sofa and lay down again. Presently she said:
“Wynnette! how can you sleep through this?”
“Sleep!” cried Wynnette. “Who’s asleep? Not I! Who could sleep through such a demoniac opera as this? Rosemary! the Germans swear ‘Ten thousand devils!’—in their own language—and I think the whole ten thousand German devils must be holding an open-air concert, after the manner of their musical countrymen, and that right around our ship! Only, they are all roaring drunk, and every one singing and playing and piping and blowing out of tune! I never heard such a hullabaloo in my life!”
“Oh, Wynnette, do you think there is any danger?”
“No, I don’t. If there was, the passengers would all be out of their berths and dressed, to be ready for the lifeboats. And there would be a great running and racing, and pulling and hauling, and cursing and swearing on deck; and the officers would all be—blaming the men’s eyes, and livers, and lights, to—encourage them, you know. And making a hullabaloo to be heard above the hurricane. And much more horrible than the hurricane, too. No; there can be no danger yet.”
“But would all that profanity go on in a beautiful ocean steamer?” inquired Rosemary.
“A good deal of it would on occasion. You may bet your best boots on that.”
“Oh, I wish it was morning!” sighed Rosemary.