I was sick all through the journey out. I don't know why. It was the
only time I was ever sea-sick, and I have seen some pretty bad weather
since I became a boat-builder. But that phantom smell of potatoes was
peculiarly vile to me. Coming back on the brig we were all ill, every
one of us, so soon as we got to sea, poisoned, I firmly believe, by
quap. On the way out most of the others recovered in a few days, but the
stuffiness below, the coarse food, the cramped dirty accommodation kept
me, if not actually sea-sick, in a state of acute physical wretchedness
the whole time. The ship abounded in cockroaches and more intimate
vermin. I was cold all the time until after we passed Cape Verde, then
I became steamily hot; I had been too preoccupied with Beatrice and my
keen desire to get the Maud Mary under way at once, to consider a proper
wardrobe for myself, and in particular I lacked a coat. Heavens! how I
lacked that coat! And, moreover, I was cooped up with two of the worst
bores in Christendom, Pollack and the captain. Pollack, after conducting
his illness in a style better adapted to the capacity of an opera house
than a small compartment, suddenly got insupportably well and breezy,
and produced a manly pipe in which he smoked a tobacco as blond as
himself, and divided his time almost equally between smoking it and
trying to clean it.
Pages:
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561