I fell asleep through sheer exhaustion, and wakened some time after in darkness.  The waves were hissing and slapping at the porthole; the second steward was cursing expertly in the linen closet, which happened to be opposite our stateroom; and somewhere people in good health were consuming viands, for cooking odors and the rattle of dishes came to us.  A door in the corridor opened, and the sound of a cornet was wafted back from the forward deck.  Somebody was playing “The Holy City.”  Steps went by.  A voice with an English accent said, “By Jove, you can’t get away from that tune,” and, in one of those instants of stillness which fall in the midst of confusion, I heard a gurgling moan.

I snapped on the light and turned—­at what cost only the seasick can appreciate—­to behold Miss R——­ sitting on the floor with her back to the wall.  She was still shrouded in her golf cape and hood, and contemplated her boots—­which were on her feet, sticking straight out before her—­as if they were a source of mental as well as bodily inconvenience.  At intervals she rolled her head and gave utterance to that shuddering moan.

Wretched as I was, I could not help gasping, “Are you enjoying your sea trip?” and she replied sepulchraily, “It isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”  We could say no more.  That time we groaned in unison.

She must have gathered strength of mind and body in the night, however, for she was in her berth next morning when the stewardess came in to know what we wanted for breakfast.  We did not want anything, as we quickly made reply.  The wind went down that day; the next day was warm and clear, with a sea like sapphire, and we dragged ourselves to the deck.  Recovery set in quickly enough then, so that we began to “think scornful” of seasickness.  Fortunately the good ship Buford ploughed her way across the Pacific without meeting another swell, and our pride was not humbled again.  We ate quite sparingly for a meal or two, and had fits of abstraction, gazing at the ceiling when extra-odorous dishes were placed in front of us.  The Radcliffe girls said that they had passed a strenuous night, engaged in wild manoeuvres to obtain possession of the monkey wrench and feloniously to secrete the same.  Their collegiate training had included instruction on the hygienic virtues of fresh air, which made no allowance for a sea trip; and their views as to the practical application of these principles came sadly into conflict with the ideas of their bedroom steward.  There were frantic searchings for a monkey wrench all that night, while the article lay snugly bestowed between the mattresses of a maiden who looked as if she might be thinking of the angels.  Also their porthole was open in defiance of orders, and much water came into their stateroom.  But they did not care, for it brought fresh air with it.