One day, while we were all three sitting in the round-house (that very pleasant little saloon on the upper deck, at the head of the cabin-staircase), my attention was diverted from my book by hearing Mrs. Cummings say to that gentleman, "Pray, sir, can you tell me what is the matter with that poor man's head? I mean the man that has to stand always at the wheel there, holding it fast and turning it. I hear the captain call out to him every now and then (and in a very rough voice too, sometimes), 'How is your head?' and 'How is your head now?' I cannot understand what the man says in answer, so I suppose he speaks American; but the captain often tells him 'to keep it steady.' And once I heard the captain call out 'Port--port,' which I was very glad of, concluding that the poor fellow had nearly given out, and he was ordering a glass of port wine to revive him. Do you think, sir, that the poor man at the wheel has a constant headache like my friend Mrs. Dawlish of Leadenhall street, or that he has hurt his head somehow, by falling out of the sails, or tumbling down the ropeladders--(there now--we've struck a rock!--mercy on us--what a life we lead! I wish I was on Ludgate Hill.) Talking of hurts, I have not escaped them myself, for I've had my falls; and yet the captain is so rude as to turn a deaf ear, and keeps sailing on all the same, even when the breath is nearly knocked out of me, and though I've offered several times to pay him for stopping, but he only laughs at me. By-the-bye, when I go back again to dear old England, and I'm sorry enough that I ever left it (as Mr. Stackhouse, the great corn-chandler in Whitechapel, told me I certainly should be), I'll see and take my passage with a captain that has more feeling for the ladies. As for this one, he never lets the ship rest a minute, but he keeps forcing her on day and night. I doubt whether she'll last the voyage out, with all this wear and tear--and then if she _should_ give in, what's to become of us all? If he would only let her stand still while we are at table, that we might eat our dinners in peace!--though it's seldom I'm well enough to eat anything to speak of--I often make my whole dinner of the leg and wing of a goose, and a slice or two of plum-pudding; but there's no comfort in eating, when we are one minute thrown forward with our heads bowing down to the very table-cloth, and the next minute flung back with them knocking against the wall."