The air was foul with the stench of bilge, the reek of the untrimmed lamps, the exhalation of so many breaths, and the close, stale smell of warm bedding.
A vague murmur rose in the air, the sound of deep breathing, the moving of restless bodies between the coarse sheets, the momentary noise of the scratching of blunt finger-tips, a subdued cough, the moan of a sleeping child.

All the while the shaft of the screw, seemingly close beneath the floor, pounded and rumbled without a moment's stop.
Immediately underneath Vandover two men, saloonkeepers, awoke and lit their cigars and began a long discussion on the question of license.

Two or three bunks distant, a woman, a Salvation Army lassie, one of a large party of Salvationists who were on board, began to cough violently, choking for breath.

Across the aisle the little Jew of the plush skull-cap with ear-laps snored monotonously in alternate keys, one a guttural bass, the other a rasping treble.

The _Mazatlan_ was rolling worse than ever, now up and down, now from side to side, and now with long forward lurches that combined the other two motions.