bably eat you before the morning'; and I
really did expect to find him eaten by the morning; for there were some
monsters in the poop.

"Next day, he began saying 'Sick.'--'Sick? Where are you sick?'--'Sick all
over.' I had enough of this after a bit, and went and got the strongest
black draught I've yet known. He didn't want to drink it, and I said to
him, 'Now drink this up as quick as you can.' And so he did. After that,
whenever I looked in at the poop, this fellow would start waving his
arms and hollering out. In fact, he was mad; every time I got near
him, he was mad. That black draught was not popular, I think. When we
got to Cuxhaven, the medical authority put this man through a careful
examination. 'He's no more mad,' he said, 'than you or I. He's got a
slight touch of rheumatics in the arm. But,' he said, 'when you get to
Hamburg, you can satisfy yourself by sending this man to the asylum.' We
did. Two days--and he was back."

Meacock's laconic phrases were accompanied with grimaces which told the
tale to perfection.

The atmosphere had grown so literary that Mead now took pencil and
paper with him to his day watch as a matter of course. The pages of
the _Optimist_ were beginning to look somewhat laboured. He determined to
infuse a new vein. So a series of vividly coloured hoaxes came into
existence, the first of which, a harem story, was too much in its full
bloom for the editor's acceptance. Not surprised, and not dejected, Mead
offered "The Pirate," and it duly appeared. These fictions ended, as did
their successors, with a disillusionment:

"And then what happened?"
"The film broke."

It was about the period of hoaxes--April 1 arrived. Bicker appeared
at my cabin, where I was reading. "Meacock wants to see you." I went.
Bicker triumphed, and went his way convinced that he could beat the
intellectual at his own game, as the _Optimist_ had already shown him
he could.

A brighter sky and cooler wind came on. We were soon expected at Saint
Vincent. The new moon and calmer waters brought one evening of strange
watery beauty. Towards his setting the sun had hidden himself in black
clouds, whence he threw a silver light over sea spaces where sea and sky
were meeting: he sank, and left the heavens like green havens, with
these clouds slowly sailing through their utmost peace. The change soon
came; the head wind brought pale grey turbulent days, with the ship
playing at rocking-horses; over the head