I could see the head-lines in the papers; the fellows at the University Club and the Bibelot shaking their heads and saying, "Poor chap!" And I could see Charley Furuseth, as I had said good-bye to him that morning, lounging in a dressing-gown on the be-pillowed window couch and delivering himself of oracular and pessimistic epigrams.
And all the while, rolling, plunging, climbing the moving mountains and falling and wallowing in the foaming valleys, the schooner _Ghost_ was fighting her way farther and farther into the heart of the Pacific--and I was on her.

I could hear the wind above.

It came to my ears as a muffled roar.

Now and again feet stamped overhead.

An endless creaking was going on all about me, the woodwork and the fittings groaning and squeaking and complaining in a thousand keys.