His room was close to the foot of the stairway, and he dashed up. He found himself on the deck of a great steamship, among dozens of well-dressed passengers who stared at him strangely. A fresh wind was blowing from a cloudy sky; the decks were wet; the ship rolled freely. Far astern there was a dark haze on the horizon, but elsewhere nothing but open water.
“For God’s sake, where am I? What ship’s this?” demanded Elliott distractedly from the nearest passenger.
“What’s the matter? Been seasick?” answered the man, who was lounging against the rail and smoking a pipe. He looked Elliott over with evident amusement.
But Elliott at that moment caught sight of a life buoy lashed upon the deckhouse. It answered his question; it bore the black lettering:
“S. S. PERU. SAN FRANCISCO.”
He tried to collect his still scattered wits, and wondered if he had boarded that ship while delirious.
“I have been very sick,” he said to his interlocutor. “I was sick before I came aboard, and I’d even forgotten where I was. What time did we sail?”
“At daylight this morning.”
“For San Francisco?”
“Of course. You must have been pretty bad. Has the ship’s doctor seen you?”