"I'm sick," sobbed Mr. Croon, and proceeded to prove it.
The officer picked him up and laid him on the bunk.
"Bless you, sir, this isn't anything to speak of. Just a bit of a blow — and quite a gentle one for the Atlantic."
Croon gasped feebly.
"Did you say the Atlantic?"
"Yes, sir. The Atlantic is the ocean we are on now, sir, and it'll be the same ocean all the way to Boston."
"I can't go to Boston," said Mr. Croon pathetically. "I'm going to die."
The officer pulled out a pipe and stuffed it with black tobacco. A cloud of rank smoke added itself to the smell of oil that was contributing to Croon's wretchedness.
"Lord, sir, you're not going to die!" said the officer cheerfully. "People who aren't used to it often get like this for the first two or three days. Though I must say, sir, you've taken a long time to wake up. I've never known a man be so long sleeping it off. That must have been a very good farewell party you had, sir."
"Damn you!" groaned the sick man weakly. "I wasn't drunk — I was drugged!"