“Say, fellows, here’s a conundrum for you: Which would you rather do,—feel all O.K. ashore, or sick as a boiled owl at sea?”
“Gee,” growled out a voice from another gray blanket, “I know what answer I’d a’ given to that two hours ago, but it’s different now! So, here goes, fellows,” and he jumped to his feet. “I call for three times three cheers for the Bright Wing and ‘being sick at sea!’”
The other two also sprang to their feet; and, as the Captain and Mr. Miller were coming up on deck, they heard, to their surprise, the sounds of the cheering, “Rah, Rah, Rah—Rah, Rah, Rah—Rah, Rah, Rah—Sea Scouts—Sea Scouts—Sea Scouts—Bright Wing, Bright Wing, Bright Wing—S-i-c-k a-t S-e-a!”
A roar of laughter followed from the former patients of the hospital ward, and it was so contagious that it reached way forward to the galley where the mess cooks were washing up after dinner.
“See here, we’re not all through yet,” cried Dick, as a new blanketed figure lay down. Chippie noticed the pale face of Jones.
“Can I get you anything, Jones?” asked Chippie innocently.
“No,” answered Jones, with a groan and sour face.
“He doesn’t feel as perky as he did,” thought Chippie to himself, with a grin.
There was always a “band concert” of half an hour after dinner when the ship was at sea; and, under the influence of the music from the Victrola, the last remnants of squeamishness disappeared, except in the case of poor old Jones.
“Pride comes before a fall,” said Dick to Chippie; “I guess he’d have done better to own up before.”