“You’re seasick, Siko,” answered the young American. “You can’t stand the rolling of the ship.”
“Master Pennington not feel hop-hop inside, no turn inside out on his liver?”
“No, I am thankful to say that I don’t feel sick a bit.”
“You strong man—wish Jiru Siko feel dat way—give a yen to feel so!” A yen is a Japanese dollar, worth about fifty-five cents of our money.
The captain had already ordered most of the sails lowered, only keeping up sufficient canvas to make the O-Taka mind her helm. The sea was boiling and foaming on all sides, and the rising and falling wind shrieked dismally through the rigging, now at a high note and then at a low. To stand on the deck without holding fast was impossible, and the little cabin was crowded to suffocation. There it was uncomfortably warm, but outside it was bitter cold, the water forming in sheets of ice on the deck and in long icicles on the sails and rigging.
“How long do you think this blow will last?” asked Gilbert, when Captain Toyano happened to pass him.
“I cannot tell, certainly until morning—perhaps for twenty-four hours longer.”
“Can we weather it, do you think?”
“I have never yet lost a ship, Mr. Pennington.”
This is all the Japanese commander would say. But it was plain to see that he was worried, and with good cause.