“We are going to have a storm,” was the reply; “it’s raining already.”
“Then maybe we will go to the bottom,” groaned Gus. “Or else we’ll turn clear over, see if we don’t.”
He had been feeling just a trifle better, but now he was worse. From looking green he was deadly white, and he shook from head to foot.
“I wish I could do something for you,” said Oliver kindly, for at least the fiftieth time. “But I don’t know of a thing that will help you.”
“It’s a punishment for running away, I suppose. I’ll never be well until we reach land again.”
“Oh, nonsense! You’ll feel all right as soon as this storm clears off.”
Gus made no reply. Oliver remained in the stateroom for a while, and then ventured above to take another observation.
As he stepped on deck a violent gust of wind blew a man’s hat directly toward him. He made a dive for the tile and captured it.
“Hello, there! got it?” sang out a voice, and an instant later the gentleman who had told Oliver that a storm was coming rushed up.
“Yes, sir; here you are.”