"It can't be done, man. If we've run down a boat, it's all over with it and all in it. I can't risk a thousand lives without hope of saving one. This is a gale, Doctor, and we have our hands full."
I turned from him in horror and despair. I stumbled to my stateroom, dropped my wet clothing in the middle of the floor, and knew no more until the trumpet called for breakfast. The rush of green waters was pounding at my porthole; the experience of the night came back to me with horror; the reek of my wet clothes sickened my heart, and I rang for the steward.
"Take these things away, Gustav, and don't bring them back until they are dry and pressed."
"What things does the Herr Doctor speak for?"
"The wet things there on the floor."
"Excuse me, but I have seen no things wet."
"You Dutch chump!" said I, half rising, "what do you mean by saying—Well, I'll be damned!" There were my clothes, dry and folded, on the couch, and my ulster and cap on their hook, without evidence of moisture or use.
"Gustav, remind me to give you three rix-dollars at breakfast."
"Danke, Herr Doctor."
Of such stuff are dreams made. But I will know those terror-stricken sailors if I do not see them for a hundred years; and I am glad the dark-haired girl did not realize the horror, but simply knew that the man loved her; and I often think of the man who did the nice thing when no one was looking, and whose face was not terrorized by the crack of doom.