Cousin Willie had slipped away, I don't know
where. Cousin Ferdinand was in his bunk with his back
turned.
"Do I slip to-night, at all," he kept growling "or do I
not? Say, mister, do I get any slip at all?"
But no one minded him.
Then daylight came and Uncle fell asleep. His face looked
drawn and gray and the cords stood out on his withered
hand, which was clutched against his shirt.
So he slept. It seemed so strange. There was no court
physician, no bulletins to reassure the world that he
was sleeping quietly.
Later in the morning I saw the ship's doctor and the
captain, all in uniform, with gold braid, walking on
their inspection round.
"You had some trouble here last night," I heard the
captain say.
"No, nothing," the doctor answered, "only one of the
steerage passengers delirious in the night."
Later in the morning the storm had gone down and the sea
was calm as glass, and Uncle Henry and I got Uncle William
up on deck. Mr. Peters, the steward that I think I spoke
about before, got us a steamer chair from the first class
that had been thrown away--quite good except for one
leg,--and Uncle William sat in it with his face away from
the sea.
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