I could not answer immediately.
“Do you suppose there is?” she repeated, and I thought there was a note of injury in her voice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I groaned wretchedly, “but I know what will be there, pretty soon, if this ship doesn’t stand still!”
She turned a startled face toward me. She said afterwards that all the colors of the ocean were reflected in mine. She had been ready to laugh at first, but her expression became one of compassion.
“Oh,” she said, “I never thought, I am such a good sailor—and the bow is the very worst place for that. You must go back amid-ships. You are seasick—I am sure of it!”
“So am I,” I gasped, “and I am also sure, now, that I am not dreaming!”
I stumbled feebly back to a steamer-chair and looked out on the horizon that one instant sank far below the rail, and the next, lifted as far above it. Between lay the tossing sea—my heritage. That which my ancestors had lived and died for. I did not blame them for dying—I was willing to do that, myself. Chauncey Gale came along just then.
“I’ve got a great scheme for the balloon boat,” he began, “a combination wind and water propeller. Ferratoni can supply the power, and——”
He caught my expression just then and the words died in his throat.
“Hello,” he laughed, “you’ve got ’em, haven’t you? Storm last week left it a little rough. Do you always get sick this way at sea?”