A White Skirt

It was in mid-ocean that Neeland finally came to the conclusion that
nobody on board the Volhynia was likely to bother him or his box.

The July weather had been magnificent--blue skies, a gentle wind, and
a sea scarcely silvered by a comber.

Assorted denizens of the Atlantic took part in the traditional
vaudeville performance for the benefit of the Volhynia passengers;
gulls followed the wake to mid-ocean; Mother Carey's chickens skimmed
the baby billows; dolphins turned watery flip-flaps under the bows;
and even a distant whale consented to oblige.

Everybody pervaded the decks morning, noon, and evening; the most
squeamish recovered confidence in twenty-four hours; and every
constitutional lubber concluded he was a born sailor.

Neeland really was one; no nausea born from the bad adjustment of that
anatomical auricular gyroscope recently discovered in man ever
disturbed his abdominal nerves. Short of shipwreck, he enjoyed any
entertainment the Atlantic offered him.

So he was always on deck, tranquilly happy and with nothing in the
world to disturb him except his responsibility for the olive-wood
box.

He dared not leave it in his locked cabin; he dared not entrust it to
anybody; he lugged it about with him wherever he went. On deck it
stood beside his steamer chair; it dangled from his hand when he
promenaded, exciting the amazement and curiosity of others; it
reposed on the floor under the table and beneath his attentive feet
when he was at meals.

These elaborate precautions indicated his wholesome respect for the
persistence of Scheherazade and her friends; he was forever scanning
his fellow-voyagers at table, in the smoking room, and as they
strolled to and fro in front of his steamer chair, trying to make up
his mind concerning them.