I was sea-sick and physically disgusted, of course, but I felt
kindly in spite of my qualms. So far as I could calculate then the
situation was saved. I saw myself returning triumphantly into the
Thames, and nothing on earth to prevent old Capern's Perfect Filament
going on the market in fortnight. I had the monopoly of electric lamps
beneath my feet.
I was released from the spell of that bloodstained black body all mixed
up with grey-black mud. I was going back to baths and decent food and
aeronautics and Beatrice. I was going back to Beatrice and my real life
again--out of this well into which I had fallen. It would have needed
something more than sea-sickness and quap fever to prevent my spirits
rising.
I told the captain that I agreed with him that the British were the scum
of Europe, the westward drift of all the people, a disgusting rabble,
and I lost three pounds by attenuated retail to Pollack at ha'penny nap
and euchre.
And then you know, as we got out into the Atlantic this side of Cape
Verde, the ship began to go to pieces.
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