Percival stirred uneasily. His tea and toast were long in coming, and a
certain haunted look was dawning on his face. Through the port-holes he
could see the deep-purple sky rising to give place to still deeper-purple
sea as the ship rose with sickening regularity. He took an olive.

"Isn't there a good deal of motion?" asked Mrs. Weston, a delicate,
appealing blonde, whose opinions were always tentative until they
received the stamp of masculine approval.

"Motion!" thundered the captain, bringing down a huge tattooed fist on
the table. "Isn't that like a woman? When I have ordered this calm
weather especially for Mrs. Weston's benefit! I've a good mind to
whistle for a hurricane."

"No, no, please!" she protested in mock terror.

Percival turned away from the foolish chatter. Matters of a deep and
sinister nature occupied his mind. He felt within him wars and rumors of
wars. He wished that the curtains would stop swinging out from the wall
in that silly fashion. It was deuced uncanny to see them hang at an
angle of twenty-five degrees, then slowly and mysteriously fall back
into their places. He tried not to watch them, but it was even more
dangerous to look at the man next him breaking soft-boiled eggs into a
glass tumbler. He took another olive.

An electric fan overhead whirred incessantly, and the bright, flashing
blades smote his eyes with diabolical precision. The circular motion,
instead of cooling him, brought beads of perspiration to his brow.

"Who'll have some Chinese chow?" asked the captain. "I always order a