That reminds me of a good joke on myself. An Englishman was complaining of the voyage and wishing he was in old. England. I did a little rapture talk about the ocean, and said I loved to go on the deck, watching the never-ending blue of water and sky and just lie and lie and lie there. He said: “I believe you told me you were a newspaper man.”
CROSSING THE ATLANTIC.
Steamship Arabic, June 1, 1905.
I have come to a realization of the work of Christopher Columbus. It took nerve to keep on sailing day in and day out, week in and week out, with no sight of anything that looked like land,—nothing but a great stretch of water, not even a stick in it. If I had been on board the Santa Maria I would surely have joined the crowd of sailors who wanted to quit and go home. We have come now nearly 3,000 miles through the Atlantic, and if someone had not been over the route before and we did not believe that land would appear at a certain time it would certainly look as if the ocean would never end. If Columbus were to make the trip now on the Arabic he would probably be as surprised as were the Indians when the Spaniards landed on San Salvador something over 400 years ago. The monotony of the ocean is only broken by an occasional passing ship, and a high-strung imagination. We have met or passed five ships in seven days. Each one has provided us with excitement for half a day. We took sides as to whether the strange vessel was a Cunarder, an American liner, a North German Lloyd or what not. Every line that crosses the ocean would have partisans and each corner of the argument would be vigorously sustained by expert evidence. I decided on a system. I always maintained that the ship was an American liner. By sticking to the text and not changing I hit it once, which was better than the average. Then we have long and sometimes bitter discussions as to the number of miles the Arabic will make in the next twenty-four hours. Tips are anxiously obtained from officers, sailors, stewards and cooks. Every man who ever bet in his life and some who never do at home, back their opinions with their money. And when we are not arguing or betting we are eating. Passengers on this line are full-fed. The day begins with 8 o’clock breakfast, at 10:30 a lunch is served, on deck, at 1 o’clock an elaborate lunch, at 4 o’clock tea, cakes and sandwiches are distributed, and at 7 o’clock a course dinner. People do all of these and eat sandwiches and stuff between times and then wonder why their stomachs are “disturbed.”
It takes all kinds of people to make up the world, and there are samples of most of the varieties on an ocean steamer. Some of our passengers are very swell and some are very bum. But they meet on the level—provided you can call the deck of a ship level when it is usually tilted one way or the other at an angle of 20 to 30 degrees. In the spirit of investigation I listened to the talk of a couple of ladies who are society leaders and members of the 400 at home. The subjects they discussed were babies, servants and clothes, and they talked just about like the women-folks of Kansas. There is a touch of human nature through all of us.
When I left home I decided not to change my watch until I got to Europe. At Boston I was only one hour behind and could easily remember and count on that. But every day on the ocean the clock has been shoved up thirty-five minutes for the 400 miles traveled eastward the preceding twenty-four hours. When it got so we were eating noonday lunch at 8 A. M. by my watch I gave it up and turned the hands around. When we reach London we will be about six hours ahead of Hutchinson time, and anyone can see the ridiculous side of getting up at 2 o’clock in the morning and going to bed at 4 in the afternoon. By a strange coincidence the sun has changed its time for rising and setting to agree with the ship’s clock.