22 DANCE OF THE FURNITURE. 



server, plate, saucer, and teaspoon, which with 

 one accord, and in spite of all I could do by- 

 most ingenious wedging, joined in a peculiar 

 dance between the outer wall and the inner par- 

 tition of my room. At one moment they rested 

 quietly in their several ways, against the wall ; 

 the steamer lurched, and all started madly 

 across the floor, the heavy things first, and 

 the lighter bringing up the rear, each banging 

 violently against the partition, with thump, 

 rattle, or jingle according to its nature, then in 

 a moment dashing back so furiously that I 

 feared to see the thin planks yield and my 

 trunk go out to sea by itself. Not that I cared 

 for my trunk — my life was the subject that in- 

 terested me at the time. Outside, too, the doors 

 and blinds rattled, the tiller-chain chattered 

 and wailed and sobbed like a woman in distress, 

 and above all other sounds rose the dismal 

 fog horn, for a pall of mist had settled over us. 

 Day differed from night only in being light, 

 for the sole prospect from the guards was one 

 moment the fog above, where the sky should 

 be, the next the depths of the sea yawning as 

 if to receive the ship into its bosom. In this 

 manner, during two days and three nights, we 

 rolled on to our destination, and for days after 

 my feet touched blessed Mother Earth I reeled 

 and staggered like a drunken man. 



