Terry didn't eat any breakfast that morning at all, unless sucking two or three whole lemons might be called by that name.
He came out on deck about ten o'clock, still entertaining very bad opinions of old Father Neptune.
He could have abused the old fellow better without indulging in profanity than any man living, but along in the middle of the afternoon he recovered entirely.
He took charge of Grace Elon, the younger of the two Elon sisters, and kept her laughing heartily as they walked to and fro upon the deck.
When they struck Cape Hatteras, where the water is always rough, it was quite late in the night, and some of the passengers felt the effect of it, which spoiled the pleasure of the evening.
The water is nearly always rough at that point on the Atlantic coast.
The next morning, though, the bosom of the ocean seemed to be like a vast mirror, so smooth was it. Seagulls were flying around, following the ship to pick up such bits of food as the cooks and waiters cast overboard. Some four or five gentlemen got out on the stern deck and with revolvers were shooting at the birds.
Nearly a dozen shots were fired without a single seagull being hit.
All sailors object to passengers shooting at Mother Carey's chickens, as they call the seagull, but the average passenger has no such superstition.
"It's a pity," said Josie Elon, "to kill such beautiful birds. How white and clean they seem to be, and what beautiful white wings they have. Every feather seems to have been made of snow."