"Going to have much of a storm?" he asked.
"Yes," said the mate. "Probably all the way to Melbourne."
Throckmartin straightened as though with a new thought. He gripped the officer's sleeve eagerly.
"You mean at least cloudy weather—for"—he hesitated—"for the next three nights, say?"
"And for three more," replied the mate.
"Thank God!" cried Throckmartin, and I think I never heard such relief and hope as was in his voice.
The sailor stood amazed. "Thank God?" he repeated. "Thank—what d'ye mean?"
But Throckmartin was moving onward to his cabin. I started to follow. The first officer stopped me.
"Your friend," he said, "is he ill?"
"The sea!" I answered hurriedly. "He's not used to it. I am going to look after him."