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. He couldn't recall mounting to that high place where he had slept. He wondered if the callous steward would sometime come to take him down. Perhaps the steward would forget.
The man from Hartford bestirred himself and was presently shaving before the small glass. Bean looked sullenly down at him. The man was running a wicked-looking razor perilously about his restless Adam's apple. He was also lightly humming "The Holy City."
"Watkins," said Bean distinctly, recalling the name that had revealed the fictitious and Hartford origin of It.
"Adams," said the man, breaking off his song and tightening a leathery cheek for the razor.
"Adam's apple," said Bean, scornfully. "Watkins!"
The man glanced at him and painfully twisted up a corner of his mouth while he applied the razor to the other corner. But he did not speak.
