“And I was hiding in the elevator all the while. But, Bob, do you know I am glad that you didn’t get out of the store with that money? It is bad enough to run away from home; it would be worse if we were thieves!”
“Bah!” exclaimed Bob contemptuously, “you’re losing courage already, and you’d better not, for you will have need of all you can muster before we get through with this business. We’ve got to earn money now to buy an outfit, and how are we going to do it? But let’s go into the cabin. It’s cold out here.”
Bob strutted off with as much dignity as if he had been the owner of the vessel, and Guy slowly followed. The cabin was a blaze of light, and most of the passengers had congregated there to escape from the cold wind that was blowing. They sat around in little groups, some reading, others conversing with their friends, and everybody seemed to be happy except Guy. He was indeed losing courage; and if he could have blotted out the events of that afternoon, he would have given everything he ever hoped to possess to have been safe under his father’s roof again. He had not yet got fairly out into the “wide, wide world,” of which he had so often dreamed, had encountered none of its trials and vicissitudes, and yet he knew as well as though he had already tried it, that the struggle he was about to commence would prove too much for him. The longer he thought about it the more nervous and uneasy he became, until at last he could not sit still, or bear to remain in the cabin. The air seemed hot and almost stifling, and the merriment of the passengers grated harshly on his ears. Arising to his feet he made his way to the deck, and for four long hours paced back and forth, all unmindful of the wind and the big drops of rain that now and then dashed into his face.
At last, overcome with fatigue and excitement, he sought his state-room. Bob had already turned in, and was snugly tucked away in the lower bunk. He appeared to be asleep, for his eyes were closed and he breathed heavily.
Guy hastily divested himself of his damp garments, and hanging them upon the hooks that were screwed into the bulk-head, climbed into his bunk and was soon in a deep slumber. He was aroused once during the night by some one moving about the room; but it was only Bob, who, in reply to an inquiry from Guy, said that he had been on deck to see how things were going, and that it was raining buckets and blowing great guns. Guy quickly went off into the land of dreams again, lulled by the rocking of the vessel, but about daylight was awakened by the pangs of seasickness.
All that forenoon he suffered greatly, and was a most forlorn-looking object indeed. Bob, who was as lively as a cricket, faithfully attended to all his wants, and shortly after dinner brought him a lemon and a piece of toast. When he had taken a little of the juice of the former, and a few mouthfuls of the latter, he felt better, and was able, with Bob’s help, to put on his clothes and go on deck. While the two boys were conversing and watching the white-caps as they rolled toward them, the steward approached, and addressing himself to Guy, said:
“Please walk up to the clerk’s office.”
“To pay your fare, you know,” added Bob, seeing that Guy did not quite understand. “I settled mine this morning.”
“Oh, yes. I have been so sick that I forgot all about that. Lend me your arm, please. I haven’t yet got my sea legs on.”
Bob complied, and in a few minutes the two boys were standing before the clerk, who drew the book containing the passenger list toward him, and asked, as he held his pen poised in the air: