He was nearly asleep on his sofa when the packet cast off.
He was sound asleep when, somewhere in the raging darkness of the
Channel, he was hurled from the sofa against the bunk opposite--into
which he presently crawled and lay, still half asleep, mechanically
rubbing a maltreated shin.
Twice more the bad-mannered British Channel was violently rude to him;
each time he crawled back to stick like a limpet in the depths of his
bunk.
Except when the Channel was too discourteous, he slept as a sea bird
sleeps afloat, tossing outside thundering combers which batter basalt
rocks.
Even in his deep, refreshing sea sleep, the subtle sense of
exhilaration--of well-being--which contact with the sea always brought
to him, possessed him. And, deep within him, the drop of Irish seethed
and purred as a kettle purrs through the watches of the night over a
banked but steady fire.