“You will live, Josiah, to wear it out.”
And as feeble as he wuz, and as much as he had wanted to die, them words would seem to sooth him some, and be a paneky to him.
I repeated ’em often, for they seemed to impress him where more affectionate and moral arguments failed.
But I may as well hang up a double rep curtain between my hearers and the fearful seens that wuz enacted in our state-rooms for nearly three days and nights.
I hang a rep curtain, so’s it would shelter the seens more; cretonne is too thin.
But some of the seens are so agonizin’ and sharp pinted that they seem to pierce even through that envelopin’ drapery.
One of them dagger-like episodes wuz of the fog horns.
If Josiah’s testementary idees and our united wretchedness would have let me doze off some in rare intervals, the tootin’ of them horns would be sure to roust me up.
Yes, they made the night dretful—ringin’ of bells, tootin’ of horns, etc.
And once, it wuz along in the latter part of the night, I guess, I heard a loud cry a-risin’ above the fog horn. It seemed to be a female in distress.