“The first mate?” queried Chet, between his groans. “Do sailors get sick?”
“Some of them do. I know the captain of an ocean liner who has crossed the Atlantic forty or fifty times. He told me confidentially that he is sick about every third or fourth voyage. It’s just the condition his stomach happens to be in.”
“Then it isn’t so—so babyish after all,” said Chet, and that gave him a grain of comfort.
The doctor did what little he could for the two lads, and by noon the next day they felt quite like themselves. Let me add, that during the remainder of the voyage they were not seasick again.
Although well weighted by her heavy cargo, and by the extra planking on her sides, and extra bracings inside, the Ice King made good time on her trip. It was summer, yet as the vessel turned northward it became colder daily, and soon the boys were glad enough to take Barwell Dawson’s advice and don heavier underwear. Then, as it grew still colder, they put on thicker outer garments also.
“I think we’ll see some icebergs soon,” announced Captain Williamson, one evening. “I can feel ’em in the air,” and he threw back his head to take in a deep breath. Many old sailors who have been in northern waters affirm that they can often “smell” icebergs before the bergs can be seen.
The boys retired as usual that night, and slept soundly until about five o’clock in the morning, when a tremendous thump on the vessel’s side aroused them and threw Chet sprawling on the floor.
“For goodness’ sake! what’s that!” gasped the lad, as he scrambled up.
Before Andy could speak there came another tremendous thump, which added to their alarm. A series of smaller thumps followed. On deck they heard Captain Williamson giving a series of rapid-fire orders.
“I think I know what’s up!” cried Andy, at last, as he donned his clothing with all possible speed. “We’ve struck some floating ice.”