At dinner time they went to the saloon, but found it almost deserted.
The ensuing week proved quite as tempestuous as the one just passed.
They were, in fact, suffering from a series of equinoctial storms.
When the ship reached the Banks of Newfoundland they experienced some variety of weather in the shape of blinding snow and stinging sleet, added to howling winds and leaping waves.
None but the officers and crew of the steamer and our old skipper ventured on deck.
Even Rosemary stayed below. It is hard enough to keep one’s feet on a rolling deck when it is dry, or on an icy surface when it is still; but to stand or walk on the sleety boards of a rocking ship is well-nigh impossible to any one but a seasoned old salt.
So Rosemary, as well as her companions, kept the cabin or the saloon.
To as many as were able to appear on the common ground of the last-mentioned place the old man made himself very useful and agreeable in helping them to pass away the long days, and especially the long evenings. He told stories, sang songs, and recited poetry—miles of poetry, which he said he had committed to memory in the lone watches of his half century of sea life.
All this time the steamer was not “flying,” not even “running,” but, as it were, only tumbling against wind and weather toward the port of New York.
But it happened on one fine morning, when the winds and the waves fell and the sun shone brightly and warmly, and seasick passengers got well and came out on deck like hibernating animals in the spring—they spied a pilot boat—Number 15—coming toward them.