“Here’s to our aunt,” said Clover gayly, as the first course went around; “of course, we all love her for Jack’s sake, but at the same time I offer two to odds that it is a pleasure to converse in under tones occasionally. Who takes?”
“Aunt Mary being laid upon her bed,” said Mitchell, “we will next proceed to lay the motion of our honorable friend upon the table. We regret Aunt Mary’s ill-health while we drink to her good—quotation marks under the latter word. Aunt Mary!—and may she arise and prosper all the way down into the launch again.”
“I’m troubled about her, really,” said Jack soberly; “we ought to have brought someone to look out for her.”
“The maid,” cried Mitchell, “the dainty, adorable maid! Here’s to Janice and—” his speech was brought to a sudden end by his two guests nearly disappearing under the table.
Jack started up.
“Ginger! Did you feel that?” he asked.
“That’s nothing,” said Mitchell, calmly replacing the water-carafe which in the excitement of the moment he had clasped to his bosom; “it’s the waves which are rising to the occasion—that’s all.” But Jack had hurried out.
He found poor Aunt Mary writhing in an agony of misery. “Oh—oh—” she cried, “I want to be still—I’m too much tipped—and all the wrong way! I want to lay smooth—and I stand on my head—all the—”
“We’re going back,” said Jack, striving to soothe her; “lie still, Aunt Mary, and we’ll soon get there. Do you want some camphor to smell?”
“I don’t feel up to smellin’,” wailed Aunt Mary, “I don’t feel up to anythin’. Go ’way. Right off.”