Hang it, they weren't so bally bad.

If he could still re-read them, after an hour or two with Henley, there must be some merit to them.
One afternoon he sat alone on the edge of his bunk.

The sun was pouring into the porthole; intermittently it flashed over him.
Suddenly and alertly he got up, looked out, listened intently, then stepped back into the cabin and locked the door.

Again he listened.
There was no sound except the steady heart-beats of the great engines below.

He sat down sidewise, took out the chamois bag which hung around his neck, and poured the contents out on the blanket.