“I say,” cried Esau, “I didn’t know ships went like fishes sometimes.”
“What do you mean?” I said, as I listened to the rush and roar, and noticed that it seemed to be getting dark.
“Why, swim right under water. Shall we ever come up again. Hah! that’s better,” for the light streamed in again through the thick round glass at the side by our heads. “I’ve had about enough of this, sir. What do you say to getting out at the next pier and walking back?”
“Oh, Esau,” I cried, “don’t be such a Cockney. What pier? This is not a river steamer.”
“I only wish it was. But I say, I can’t eat, and I can’t sleep, and I’m sore outside and in. Let’s go back and follow mother and them two in a waggon.”
“But don’t you know that we should have a rough voyage across first?”
“Couldn’t be so rough as this. Oh, there it goes again. I know we’re going to dive down right to the bottom. Wish we could, and then we might get out and walk. Here, let’s go on deck.”
“We can’t,” I said.
“No,” said the one-eyed man, a big, broad, Saxon-looking fellow, “we’re battened down.”
“Oh, are we?” said Esau.