The 'ole son,' whose face was a ghastly yellow, whose eyes were closed, and whose head rested carelessly on the shoulder of his next-door neighbour, a man whose name he didn't even know, looked up with a sickly grin, and then relapsed into torpitude.
Billings, swaying easily to the violent rolling of the ship, looked at him with amusement. ''Ave a bit o' somethin' t' eat?' he suggested, with horrible cheeriness. 'Nice little bit o' corned beef, or a drop o' pea-soup? Pea-soup's fine scran fur blokes wot's seasick.' He smacked his lips appreciatively.
Pincher shook his head.
'Then 'ave a nice bit o' fat 'am?' suggested his tormentor. 'Slips down nice an' easy like, an' don't rest 'eavy on th' stummick, fat 'am don't.'
Pincher groaned at the idea.
''Strewth! you ain't 'arf a sailor, you ain't!' the elder man snorted contemptuously, moving off.
Pincher expressed no emotion at all. The very sight of Billings's rubicund countenance made him feel worse than ever, while a man who could mention food at such a time was surely beyond the pale. Moreover, a sailor's life was the very last thing that he took any interest in at that particular time.
Even some of the officers were unwell. The padre retired to his bunk, and was fed by his marine servant on soda-water and Bath Oliver biscuits; while Cutting, the young surgeon, Hannibal Chance, the captain of Marines, and the fleet pay-master refused nourishment of any kind whatsoever. Nearly all the others made some attempt to eat their meals; but all except the most hardened sea-dogs bolted a few mouthfuls, and then beat a hasty retreat to their cabins. The only person who did really enjoy it was Harry Derrick, the Royal Naval Reserve lieutenant, or 'Cargo Bill,' as his messmates invariably called him. He always had an insatiable appetite, whatever the weather, and a 'little bit of a sea like this' did not incommode him in the slightest. It was nothing to what he had experienced off Cape Horn in the wind-jammer days he never tired of talking about when he could persuade any one to listen.
But all things come to an end in time; and, after thirty-six hours of absolute misery, Pincher revived to find the squadron steaming into Arosa Bay.
So this was Spain! he thought to himself, looking round with interest as they passed into the sheltered anchorage. He had imagined it to be rather a wonderful country, but if this was a fair sample, he didn't go much on it. A large indented bay; a few blue hills in the distance; a low-lying, arid-looking country, dotted here and there with wooded clumps and patches of cultivated ground; a few small white houses and a gray stone church or two; a straggling town and a long pier at the head of the bay; and many fishing-boats with strangely cut sails. There was a peculiar tang in the air, the nature of which he could not at first determine. It was neither the sweet odour of freshly turned earth, new-mown hay, or heather, nor yet the honest salty smell of the open sea. It was something far more pungent and overpowering. He found out afterwards that it emanated from various sardine-preserving factories, and the discovery put him off canteen 'sharks' for quite a week. There are sardines and sardines; let us be thankful they are not all Spanish sardines!