“What makes this up and down feeling?” she asked Mitchell.
“What up and down feeling?” he asked, secure in the good conscience and pure living of an oatmeal breakfast. “I don’t feel up and down.”
“I do,” said Aunt Mary abruptly; “I want to be somewhere else.”
“You want to be on deck,” said Burnett, suddenly emerging from somewhere; “I know the symptoms. I always have ’em. Come on. And when we get up there, I’ll collar Jack for urging those six last griddle cakes on me this morning.”
“I ain’t sure I want to be on deck,” said Aunt Mary; “dear me—I feel as if I wasn’t sure of anythin’.”
“What did I tell you?” said Burnett to Mitchell; “it’s blowing fresh and neither she nor I ought to have come. You know me when it blows.”
“Shut up,” said Mitchell, hurrying Aunt Mary up the companion-way and shoving her into one chair and her feet into another; “there, Miss Watkins, you’re all right now, aren’t you?”
“What’s the matter?” said Jack, coming from somewhere aloft or astern. “Heaven bless me, what ails you, Aunt Mary?”
“I don’t wonder I’m pale,” said Aunt Mary faintly, “oh—oh—”
“We must put our heads together,” said Burnett, taking a drink from a flask that he took out of his pocket; “I must soon put my head on something, and your aunt looks to me to feel the same way. Mitchell, why did you let me forget that vow I made last time to never come again?”