I slept only cat-naps.

The boat was leaping and pounding as it fell over the crests, I could hear the seas rushing past, and spray was continually being thrown aboard.

And still, it was not a bad night, I mused--nothing to the nights I had been through on the _Ghost_; nothing, perhaps, to the nights we should go through in this cockle-shell.

Its planking was three-quarters of an inch thick.
Between us and the bottom of the sea was less than an inch of wood.
And yet, I aver it, and I aver it again, I was unafraid.

The death which Wolf Larsen and even Thomas Mugridge had made me fear, I no longer feared.