A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

my endeavors in this hour of peril. You have hats–go

forward and bail for your lives!”

Down swept another mighty blast of wind, clothed in

spray and thick darkness. At such a moment as this,

came from away forward that most appalling of all cries

that are ever heard at sea:

“MAN OVERBOARD!”

The captain shouted:

“Hard a-port! Never mind the man! Let him climb aboard

or wade ashore!”

Another cry came down the wind:

“Breakers ahead!”

“Where away?”

“Not a log’s length off her port fore-foot!”

We had groped our slippery way forward, and were now

bailing with the frenzy of despair, when we heard

the mate’s terrified cry, from far aft:

“Stop that dashed bailing, or we shall be aground!”

But this was immediately followed by the glad shout:

“Land aboard the starboard transom!”

“Saved!” cried the captain. “Jump ashore and take a turn

around a tree and pass the bight aboard!”

The next moment we were all on shore weeping and embracing

for joy, while the rain poured down in torrents.

The captain said he had been a mariner for forty years

on the Neckar, and in that time had seen storms to make

a man’s cheek blanch and his pulses stop, but he had never,

never seen a storm that even approached this one.

How familiar that sounded! For I have been at sea a good

deal and have heard that remark from captains with a

frequency accordingly.

We framed in our minds the usual resolution of thanks

and admiration and gratitude, and took the first

opportunity to vote it, and put it in writing and

present it to the captain, with the customary speech.

We tramped through the darkness and the drenching summer

rain full three miles, and reached “The Naturalist Tavern”

in the village of Hirschhorn just an hour before midnight,

almost exhausted from hardship, fatigue, and terror.

I can never forget that night.

The landlord was rich, and therefore could afford to be

crusty and disobliging; he did not at all like being

turned out of his warm bed to open his house for us.

But no matter, his household got up and cooked a quick

supper for us, and we brewed a hot punch for ourselves,

to keep off consumption. After supper and punch we

had an hour’s soothing smoke while we fought the naval

battle over again and voted the resolutions; then we

retired to exceedingly neat and pretty chambers upstairs

that had clean, comfortable beds in them with heirloom

pillowcases most elaborately and tastefully embroidered

by hand.

Such rooms and beds and embroidered linen are as frequent

in German village inns as they are rare in ours.

Our villages are superior to German villages in

more merits, excellences, conveniences, and privileges

than I can enumerate, but the hotels do not belong in the list.

“The Naturalist Tavern” was not a meaningless name; for all

the halls and all the rooms were lined with large glass

cases which were filled with all sorts of birds and animals,

glass-eyed, ably stuffed, and set up in the most natural

eloquent and dramatic attitudes. The moment we were abed,

the rain cleared away and the moon came out. I dozed off

to sleep while contemplating a great white stuffed owl

which was looking intently down on me from a high perch

with the air of a person who thought he had met me before,

but could not make out for certain.

But young Z did not get off so easily. He said that as he was

sinking deliciously to sleep, the moon lifted away the shadows

and developed a huge cat, on a bracket, dead and stuffed,

but crouching, with every muscle tense, for a spring,

and with its glittering glass eyes aimed straight at him.

It made Z uncomfortable. He tried closing his own eyes,

but that did not answer, for a natural instinct kept

making him open them again to see if the cat was still

getting ready to launch at him–which she always was.

He tried turning his back, but that was a failure;

he knew the sinister eyes were on him still. So at

last he had to get up, after an hour or two of worry