The flapper was showing traces
of tears, but also a considerable acrimony. She was threatening to tell
the captain to just perfectly turn the little old steamer back. But it
came to nothing. At least to nothing more than Bean's sharing the
stateroom of the Hartford man, who had covered the lower berth with his
belongings so that there might be no foolish mistake.
And that was because there had been no provision made on the little old
steamer for this invasion of casual Breedes. Pops and Moms had secured
an officer's room; the Demon, rather than sit up in the smoking-room of
nights, had consented to share the flapper's suite; and Bean had been
taken in charge by a cold-blooded steward who left him in the narrow
quarters of the Hartford person.
And there, in the far night, he was wishing he might be back in the
steam-heated apartment with Nap. He had a violent headache, and he had
awakened from a dream of falling into a well of cool, clear water of
which he thirstily drank. His narrow bed behaved abominably, rolling him
from side to side, then letting his head sink to some far-off terrifying
depth. And there was no way of leaving that little old steamer ... not for
a man who couldn't swim a stroke.
So he suffered for long miserable hours. Light broke through the little
round windows, and outside he could see the appalling waste of water,
foaming, seething, rising to engulf him.
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