Oh! there again.

No, it'll be too bad, Richie, if we 're beaten in this way.' 'If YOU are beaten,' said I, scarcely venturing to speak lest I should cry or be sick.
We both felt that the vessel was conspiring to ruin our self-respect.
I set my head to think as hard as possible on Latin verses (my instinct must have drawn me to them as to a species of intellectual biscuit steeped in spirit, tough, and comforting, and fundamentally opposed to existing circumstances, otherwise I cannot account for the attraction).
They helped me for a time; they kept off self-pity, and kept the machinery of the mind at work.

They lifted me, as it were, to an upper floor removed from the treacherously sighing Priscilla.

But I came down quickly with a crash; no dexterous management of my mental resources could save me from the hemp-like smell of the ship, nor would leaning over the taffrail, nor lying curled under a tarpaulin.

The sailors heaped pilot-coats upon us.