And they smoked， incessantly smoked， using a coarse， cheap， and offensive-smelling tobacco.The air was thick and murky with the smoke of it； and this， combined with the violent movement of the ship as she struggled through the storm， would surely have made me seasick had been a victim to that malady.As it was， it made me quite squeamish， though this nausea might have been due to the pain of my leg and exhaustion.
As I lay there thinking， I naturally dwelt upon myself and my situation.
It was unparalleled， undreamed-of， that I， Humphrey Van Weyden， a scholar and a dilettante， if you please， in things artistic and literary， should be lying here on a Bering Sea seal-hunting schooner.Cabin-boy！ I had never done any hard manual labor， or scullion labor， in my life.I had lived a placid， uneventful， sedentary existence all my days -- the life of a scholar and a recluse on an assured and comfortable income.Violent life and athletic sports had never appealed to me.I had always been a book-worm；so my sisters and father had called me during my childhood.I had gone camping but once in my life， and then I left the party almost at its start and returned to the comforts and conveniences of a roof.And here I was， with dreary and endless vistas before me of table-setting， potato-peeling， and dish-washing.And I was not strong.The doctors had always said that I had a remarkable constitution， but I had never developed it or my body through exercise.My muscles were small and soft， like a woman's， or so the doctors had said time and again in the course of their attempts to persuade me to go in for physical-culture fads.But I had preferred to use my head， rather than my body； and here I was， in no fit condition for the rough life in prospect.
These are merely a few of the things that went through my mind， and are related for the sake of vindicating myself in advance in the weak and helpless r攍e I was destined to play.But I thought， also， of my mother and sisters， and pictured their grief.I was among the missing dead of the Martinez disaster， an unrecovered body.I could see the head-lines in the papers； the fellows at the University Club and the Bibelot shaking their heads and saying， "Poor chap！" And I could see Charley Furuseth， as I had said good-by to him that morning， lounging in a dressing-gown on the be-pillowed window couch and delivering himself of oracular and pessimistic epigrams.
And all the while， rolling， plunging， climbing the moving mountains and falling and wallowing in the foaming valleys， the schooner Ghost was fighting her way farther and farther into the heart of the Pacific -- and I was on her.I could hear the wind above.It came to my ears as a muffled roar.Now and again feet stamped overhead.An endless creaking was going on all about me， the woodwork and the fittings groaning and squeaking and complaining in a thousand keys.The hunters were still arguing and roaring like some semi-human amphibious breed.The air was filled with oaths and indecent expressions.I could see their faces， flushed and angry， the brutality distorted and emphasized by the sickly yellow of the sea-lamps which rocked back and forth with the ship.Through the dim smoke-haze the bunks looked like the sleeping dens of animals in a menagerie.Oilskins and sea-boots were hanging from the walls， and here and there rifles and shotguns rested securely in the racks.It was a sea-fitting for the buccaneers and pirates of bygone years.My imagination ran riot， and still I could not sleep.And it was a long， long night， weary and dreary and long.
