The Upper Berth

The CampfireThe openingFree

A man named Brisbane crossed the Atlantic many times on business. He was a big, strong, sensible man. He told this story at a dinner party, late at night, after the cigars came out. He said he would never cross on that ship again.

The ship was called the Kamtschatka. She was a fine steamship, fast and comfortable. Brisbane booked a cabin. Number 105. A small room with two bunks, one above the other. A little round porthole. A washbasin.

When he went to the cabin the first night, the steward who carried his bag stopped at the door and said, "Number 105, sir?"

Brisbane said yes.

The steward looked at him for a moment, with a strange face. Then he put the bag down very quickly, and left.

Brisbane's cabin mate came in late that night, after he was already in the lower bunk. A tall, thin man. Brisbane saw only his back, climbing up into the top bunk. He never saw his face. The man pulled the curtain shut.

In the middle of the night, Brisbane woke to the sound of the cabin door being yanked open. Someone ran out. He heard footsteps running down the passage. And far off, he thought, a splash.

The man in the upper berth was gone.

Brisbane got up. The cabin was freezing. The porthole was open. Wide open, and swinging. Cold, wet sea air was pouring in.

He shut it. He fastened it. He went back to bed.