'Tis a day when the sea, grown
frisky, kicks up its nimble heels and tosses its frothy mane. A
cigar tastes wrong then and the mere sight of so many meat pies
and so many German salads at the entrance to the dining salon gives
one acute displeasure. By these signs you know that you are on
the verge of being taken down with climate fever, which, as I set
forth many pages agone, is a malady peculiar to the watery deep,
and by green travelers is frequently mistaken for seasickness,
which indeed it does resemble in certain respects. I may say that
I had one touch of climate fever going over and a succession of
touches coming back.
At such a time, the companionship of others palls on one. It is
well then to retire to the privacy of one's stateroom and recline
awhile. I did a good deal of reclining, coming back; I was not
exactly happy while reclining, but I was happier than I would have
been doing anything else. Besides, as I reclined there on my cosy
bed, a medley of voices would often float in to me through the
half-opened port and I could visualize the owners of those voices
as they sat ranged in steamer chairs, along the deck. I quote:
"You, Raymund! You get down off that rail this minute." ... "My
dear, you just ought to go to mine! He never hesitates a minute
about operating, and he has the loveliest manners in the operating
room.
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