Meanwhile prompt attention is forthcoming from the berth steward, W. Harrison. The measure of your suffering is indexed by your feed. The first morning of being down Harrison enters the cabin and asks tenderly, “What can I get you for breakfast, sir?” holding out a menu-card. “Don’t show me that” is the shuddering reply. The sight certainly the thought, of it provokes an internal protest against food. “My stomach no fit for chop,” as the natives down the Coast would say. Anglise: “I cannot possibly eat.” Midday Harrison appears in an enquiring attitude, “No, thank you; not now.” The evening brings him again. The situation is slightly on the mend, for a few grapes are requested and a large bunch is sent in by the chief steward, Mr James Toner. Next morning there is a brighter outlook. Life appears worth living. Dry biscuits and grapes are readily asked for. The doctor makes a call, which is repeated a few hours later, and each time he insists, in his quick manner of expression, that the still-stricken patient is appreciably nearing the stage of tearing about the deck. Lunch-time the menu-card, which Harrison on his calls has evidently been holding behind him, out of sight, no longer creates the former revulsion, and a little cold meat, mashed potatoes and biscuits are selected. The fulfilment of the doctor’s prophecy still, however, feels a long way off, but he urges the powers of the sea, the fresh air and the breeze, adding that “the close breathing in a cabin gives as much trouble as the rolling waves.” Two efforts were made to dress. They had to be abandoned. The prone position was the only one endurable. An hour or two and a third endeavour. Very laboured was each stage of the toilet. There were strong indications that internal influences would prevail. Fortunately the perpendicular balance was maintained until the last touch had been given, and then a washed-out looking object crawled upstairs and huddled itself in a deck chair. Dr Hanington’s declaration was not as far removed from justification, after all, for the fresh air proved wonderfully recuperative, and by the following morning the patient was, like Richard, himself again. It was the shortest of his many terms of mal-de-mer, the limited span entirely due to the excellent doctor of the _Akabo_.