Every few minutes the water dashed over the railing and washed the deck.  From the penthouse over the door of the companionway, streams would suddenly come raining down, completely drenching Max Pander’s little mate, who was now standing on guard.  The masts and rigging were decorated with icicles, and rain and snow were falling alternately.  It seemed as if the dreary grey dawn, with its uproar, with the whining, whistling, and howling of the furious wind in the masts and rigging, with the swishing and seething of the waters, wanted to prolong its existence infinitely, while the day refused to enter.

Warming his hands on his big tea-cup, he looked out over the ship’s side, which every now and then seemed to sink perpendicularly.  His eyes glowed.  He felt as if they had sunk deep into their sockets.  After the hardships of the last few days, especially the past night, it was natural that he should feel bruised, bodily and spiritually.  He had a sense of vacancy and dull-mindedness, a welcome feeling, to be sure, compared with his sensations of the night, when the procession of images passed through his brain.  Nevertheless, the strong, moist, tonic wind, the taste of salt on his lips refreshed him.  He shivered a little, and sat with his head sunk in the upturned collar of his overcoat.  Presently he began to feel pleasantly drowsy.

But he did not fail to perceive the full majesty in the turmoil of the waves and the struggle of the floating palace.  There was beauty and strength in the steamer’s fixed course, in the way it clove the rolling crests of the bottle-green waves, steady, tranquil, fearless.  He admired the Roland, praised it, and was grateful to it as to a living being.

Next after him to appear on deck were three children, two girls and a boy, of from five to eleven.  One of the helpful stewards fastened their chairs and most solicitously guided them to their seats, one at a time.  Children are spoiled on steamers.  There they sat, rocked to and fro, fearlessly looking out upon the solemn, awful rolling of the long waves, upon the horror of the tempest.

Shortly after seven o’clock, a slim man wearing the ship’s uniform slowly approached Frederick.  Frederick had noticed him the day before and been interested by his air of cool impassibility.  He was smoking a cigarette and inhaling, as when Frederick had first seen him.  Wearing an expression of profound apathy, he seemed to be completely absorbed in this occupation of smoking and inhaling.  As if casually, he drew near Frederick’s bench, touched his cap, and said: 

“Doctor von Kammacher?”

“Yes.”

“Here is a letter for you,” he said, drawing it from his waistcoat pocket.  “It came by the French pilot-boat yesterday.  The reason I did not deliver it is, that I could not find your name on the passenger list.  My name is Rinck.  I am in charge of the mail on board.”

Frederick thanked him.  He was moved to see his father’s handwriting.  Rather for the sake of being friendly than from genuine interest at that moment, he asked Mr. Rinck what prospect there was of better weather.  The sole answer was an unintelligible English word, a shrug of the shoulders, and a puff of cigarette smoke blown with gusto.