was pitched on to his sofa. He came to see me, and tucked himself up on the other side of the sofa by way of steadying us. Just then the ship took one of her deepest rolls; the spar that kept in his books gave way, and the books all poured out on the floor; two of his heavy boxes broke from their lashings and began dancing about among the books, and all George’s shoes and boots. Chance was jerked off the sofa into the middle of the room, and began crying; George was thrown upon me, and we both laughed so that he could not get up again. We made a grab at the bell and Mars came in, sitting down, which was the only way of moving that day. ‘Encore un déménagement!’ he said, as he tried to pick up the books. ‘Eh bien! c’est une manière de voyager, mais si c’est la bonne . . . . ?’ The next roll brought sliding in—in the same position—saying, ‘More fun! No dinner to-day; that last lurch sent the cook into the sheep pen, and the sheep are too frightened to help him out; and there’s the hatchway ladder unshipped as H was going down’ (he is an immensely fat young man) ‘and he fell under it, and four marines on the top of him.’
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