seven o'clock
A mug of cocoa -- strange how hot cocoa cools one -- and I turn in . I hear the Skipper padding up and down in his sandals on the poop , clad only in pyjamas . At last , as the stars are paling , I fall asleep . At seven o'clock I am aroused by the mess-room steward leaning over me , closing my ports . They are flooding the decks with sea-water to cool them , and if my ports are open I am also flooded . Still no relief . There is a deathly quiet in the mess-room as we assembled to our Christmas breakfast of bacon and eggs , coffee , cocoa , and marmalade .