Major Barkison sat at a table in the salon, a stack of writing paper in front of him.
“Good evening, sir,” said Martin.
“Good evening. Things seem a bit quieter now.”
“Yes, we’ll be able to get some sleep.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I never thought the sea could get so rough.” The Major contemplated the fountain pen in his hand. “I was,” he confided, “quite sick.”
“I’m sorry. You should have let us know, we’ve got some stuff to take care of that.”
“Have you really? I felt so terrible that I couldn’t get out of my bunk. I’ve never seen such jumping around. Does this sort of thing happen often?”
“Not too often, thank God.”
“It was quite enough.” The Major stroked his bald brow. The veins stood out on his hand. Martin hoped the Major had nothing seriously wrong with him. It was one of Martin’s nightmares that someone should have appendicitis or something like that aboard ship when they would be unable to help. Such things had happened before on other ships.
“I’ve been doing a little letter writing,” the Major explained, pointing to the papers. “I can really get caught up on a trip like this.”