regard. There is the bath-room, for instance, small and compact, it
is true, but containing all the conveniences of any bath-room upon
land. The bath-room is a beautiful dream of schemes and devices,
pumps, and levers, and sea-valves. Why, in the course of its
building, I used to lie awake nights thinking about that bath-room.
And next to the bathroom come the life-boat and the launch. They
are carried on deck, and they take up what little space might have
been left us for exercise. But then, they beat life insurance; and
the prudent man, even if he has built as staunch and strong a craft
as the Snark, will see to it that he has a good life-boat as well.
And ours is a good one. It is a dandy. It was stipulated to cost
one hundred and fifty dollars, and when I came to pay the bill, it
turned out to be three hundred and ninety-five dollars. That shows
how good a life-boat it is.

I could go on at great length relating the various virtues and
excellences of the Snark, but I refrain. I have bragged enough as
it is, and I have bragged to a purpose, as will be seen before my
tale is ended. And please remember its title, "The Inconceivable
and Monstrous." It was planned that the Snark should sail on
October 1, 1906. That she did not so sail was inconceivable and
monstrous. There was no valid reason for not sailing except that
she was not ready to sail, and there was no conceivable reason why
she was not ready. She was promised on November first, on November
fifteenth, on December first; and yet she was never ready. On
December first Charmian and I left the sweet, clean Sonoma country
and came down to live in the stifling city--but not for long, oh,
no, only for two weeks, for we would sail on December fifteenth.
And I guess we ought to know, for Roscoe said so, and it was on his
advice that we came to the city to stay two weeks. Alas, the two