The trunks had disappeared down the hold; the portmanteaus were nowhere to be seen. Most of the passengers apparently were in their staterooms exploring their new quarters, getting out their wraps, Tam-o'-Shanters, fore-and-aft caps, steamer chairs, rugs, and copies of paper-covered novels. The deck was almost deserted, yet here and there a steamer chair had already been placed, and one or two were occupied. The voyage had commenced. The engine had settled down to its regular low thud, thud; the vessel's head rose gracefully with the long swell of the ocean, and, to make every thing complete, several passengers already felt that inward qualm—the accompaniment of so many ocean voyages.
George Morris yawned, and seemed the very picture of ennui. He put his hands deeply into his coat pockets, and sauntered across the deck. Then he took a stroll up the one side and down the other. As he lounged along it was very evident that he was tired of the voyage, even before it began. Judging from his listless manner nothing on earth could arouse the interest of the young man. The gong sounded faintly in the inner depth of the ship somewhere, announcing dinner. Then, as the steward appeared up the companion way, the sonorous whang, whang, became louder, and the
