A number of ladies crowded on deck, and, aided by the stewards, were safely tucked into chairs in places protected from wind and spray.  The deck stewards tempted them with broth, but they only sipped it indifferently.  These same ladies, just the day before had carried their feather-tipped heads ever so stately.  Now, alas, how had the mighty leveler laid them low!  They did not now care how their gowns fitted, or whether their hats were on straight.  Any common person, not afflicted with sea-sickness, could have criticised their attitude in the chairs.  One became so indifferent to correct appearances that she slid from her chair on to the deck, where she undignifiedly sprawled.  The deck steward had to tuck her shawls about her and assist her to a more lady-like position.

“That’s pretty tough,” remarked Chester.

“All the wits have tried their skill on the subject of sea-sickness,” said his companion; “but it’s no joke to those who experience it.”

“Can’t we help those ladies?” asked Chester.

“Not very much.  You will find the best thing to do is to let them alone.  They’ll not thank you, not now, for any suggestion or proffer of help.  If you should be so foolish as to ask them what you could do for them, they would reply, if they replied at all, ’Stop the ship for five minutes.’”

“Then I’ll be wise,” said Chester.

The night came on, dark and stormy.  The two friends kept up well.  They ate the evening meal with appetite, then went on deck again.

Night adds awfulness to the sublimity of a storm at sea.  The world about the ship is in wild commotion.  The sky seems to have dropped into the sea, and now joins the roaring waves as they rush along.  The blackness of the night is impenetrable, save as the lights from the ship gleam for an instant into the moving mass of water.  Now and then a wave, rearing its crested head higher than the rest, breaks in spray upon the deck.  The wind seems eager to hurl every movable object from the vessel, but as everything is fast, it must be content to shriek in the rigging and to sweep out into the darkness, and lend its madness to the sea and sky.

But let us leave this awe-inspiring uproar and go down into the saloon.  Here we come into another world, a world of light and peace and contentment.  The drawn curtains exclude the sight of the angry elements without, and save for the gentle rocking of the ship and the occasional splashing of water against its sides, we can easily imagine that we are a thousand miles from the sea.  Passengers sit at the long tables, reading or chatting.  Other groups are playing cards or chess.  In the cushioned corners, young men and maidens are exchanging banter with words and glances.  A young lady is playing the piano, and over all this scene of life, and light, and gaiety, the electric lamps gleam in steady splendor.