“I think,” he said, “I think, Mr. Coulson, that you had better wake up.”
He unlocked the door and resumed his promenade of the deck. In the bows he stood for some time, leaning with folded arms against a pillar, his eyes fixed upon the line of lights ahead. The great waves now leaped into the moonlight, the wind sang in the rigging and came booming across the waters, the salt spray stung his cheeks. High above his head, the slender mast, with its Marconi attachment, swang and dived, reached out for the stars, and fell away with a shudder. The man who watched, stood and dreamed until the voyage was almost over. Then he turned on his heel and went back to see how his cabin companion was faring.
Mr. Coulson was sitting on the edge of his bunk. He had awakened with a terrible headache and a sense of some hideous indiscretion. It was not until he had examined every paper in his pocket and all his money that he had begun to feel more comfortable. And in the meantime he had forgotten altogether to be seasick.
“Well, how has the remedy worked?” the stranger inquired.
Mr. Coulson looked him in the face. Then he drew a short breath of relief. He had been indiscreet, but he had alarmed himself unnecessarily. There was nothing about the appearance of the quiet, dark little man, with the amiable eyes and slightly foreign manner, in the least suspicious.
“It’s given me a brute of a headache,” he declared, “but I certainly haven’t been seasick up till now, and I must say I’ve never crossed before without being ill.”
The stranger laughed soothingly.
“That brandy and soda would keep you right.” He said. “When we get to Folkestone, you’ll be wanting a supper basket. Make yourself at home. I don’t need the cabin. It’s a glorious night outside. I shouldn’t have come in at all except to see how you were getting on.”
“How long before we are in?” Mr. Coulson asked.
“About a quarter of an hour,” was the answer. “I’ll come for you, if you like. Have a few minute’s nap if you feel sleepy.”