“Say, I dreamed you lost that thing,” the niece told him. “Yes, shell be out soon, I guess.”
“That’s good. I was afraid she was going to lay there and starve to death.”
“No, she'll be out pretty soon.” They stood facing each other in the narrow passage, blocking it completely, and the niece said: “Get on, Pete. I feel too tired to climb over you this morning.”
He stood aside for her, and watching her retreat he called after her: “Losing your pants.”
She stopped and dragged at her hips as a shapeless fabric descended from beneath the raincoat and wadded slow and lethargic about her feet. She stood on one leg and kicked at the mass, then stooping she picked from amid its folds a man’s frayed and shapeless necktie. “Damn that string,” she said, kicking out of the garment and picking it up.
Pete turned in the narrow corridor, counting discrete identical doors. He smelled coffee and he added to himself: A hard trip, and, with unction: I’ll tell the world it is.
eight o'clock
“It’s the steering gear,” Mrs. Maurier explained at the breakfast table. “Some—”
“I know,” Mrs. Wiseman exclaimed immediately above the grapefruit, “German spies!”
Mrs. Maurier stared at her with patient astonishment. She said, How cute. “It worked perfectly yesterday. The captain said it worked perfectly yesterday. But this morning, when the storm came up. . . anyway, were aground, and they are sending some one to get a tug to pull us off. They are trying to find the trouble this morning, but I don’t know . . .”
Mrs. Wiseman leaned toward her and patted her fumbling
