eremoniously touched a scar on
the rough fellow's hairy neck to recall to him the fact that he had
already sewed one knife wound, from which he had barely escaped with his
life. That worked, and Wilke seemed to be repentant. Frederick gave him
some money, but not for whisky, as he told him, and added he would try
his best for him, but only if he heard that he had been behaving like
a decent human being.

XVII

The physicians ascended on deck again. On breathing in the ocean's pure
breath after the foul odours of the steerage, Frederick felt as if he had
escaped from a hideous, suffocating hell.

With difficulty they made their way across the wet, empty deck, ever and
again washed by waves sweeping overboard. To keep their footing they had
to cling to the railing. Not a soul was on deck. The ship, restlessly
rolling and pounding, seemed to have been left to fight its fight alone.
But this was an awful scene that relieved and refreshed Frederick.

He went to the ladies' parlour, there to read the letter from home,
which he had nearly forgotten. A few women, who were not seasick, were
scattered through the room, lolling in their chairs in a state of limp
exhaustion. The saloon smelled of plush and varnish. It was decorated
with a number of mirrors in gold frames, there was a grand piano, and the
sound of footsteps was muffled by the soft carpet covering the floor. The
prevailing colour was blue.

Frederick made himself comfortable in one of the blue arm-chairs, and
opened the envelope. He found a letter from his mother also. But he was
more anxious to learn his father's feelings and opinion of the step he
had taken, and he read his letter first.

* * * * *

Dear Frederick,

I do not know whether this letter will find you, or where it will find
you. Perhaps not until you reach New York, where it may arrive later than
you. I should really like you to have your old father's and mother's
greetings on your trip, which is something of a surprise to us. But we
are used to surprises from you, since we have not had your unreserved
confidence for a long time. I am a fatalist, and far from wishing to bore
you with reproaches; but it is a pity that ever since you have been of
age, so many differences have arisen in our ways of thinking and acting.
A great pity, God knows. If only you had sometimes listened to me--but,
as I said, there's no use to come limping after with "if only's" and t