For a few moments the two men puffed in silence, chatting of indifferent subjects. Then the ship pitched more heavily than usual and the other gulped.
“I—I no get sick,” he protested. “I am old sailor. But I—I think I eat something for dinner that not agree with me. I—I think I go below.” He slouched heavily away.
Topham did not laugh. With astonishment he had suddenly discovered that he too was feeling qualmy. The sensation was so novel, so utterly unlooked for, so hatefully amazing that he almost laughed.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “I’m feeling queer myself. I didn’t know that any sea could make me sick, but—Good Lord!”
The sensations had grown stronger with unexampled rapidity. In almost a moment they became acute. A fog came before his eyes and his senses actually reeled. Desperately he clung to the rail, feeling certain that he should fall if his grip loosened.
How long he stood there more than half unconscious he never knew. He was roused by a woman’s voice, speaking excitedly.
“But he is ill! He is very ill! Quick! catch him!”
Dimly he heard a faint rush of feet; then an arm was slipped under his. “This way, senor,” pleaded a voice—a very soft, musical voice. “Just a step—just a step. Now sit down! There!”
Guided by some one’s arm Topham reeled for an immeasurable distance. Then he fell also immeasurably. Finally, finding himself in a chair he closed his eyes.
Only a few seconds later, it seemed, he opened them again and found himself stretched in a steamer chair. His head felt queer and his stomach shaky. As he gazed stupidly around, a woman who was bending over him straightened up.