“I never tried to make him do that, ’cause we don’t have bears up where I come from. Are there any where you live?”
“Well, I never saw any, an’ father says there ain’t any; but I’ve heard ’em in the woods, an’ I know they was bears, ’cause they made such an awful noise. You come down to see me some time, an’ bring the dog with you, an’ we’ll kill some.”
Tim was perfectly sure that Tip was able to kill any number of bears, and he told his companion so, adding that he hardly thought he could get away from the steamer long enough to make any kind of a visit; but Bobby felt sure it could be arranged somehow.
While they had been talking about Tip the boat had started, but, among the freight as they were, they did not know it until the pitching of the steamer as she left the harbor told that some change had been and was being made in their position.
Running hastily out to the rail, where they expected to see the wharf, with its bustling crowd of hucksters and passengers, they saw to their astonishment the green, rolling billows of the ocean. To Bobby, who lived on an island, the sea was no new sight, and his astonishment was only occasioned by the fact that the steamer had left the dock; but to Tim, who had never seen a body of water larger than the river in Selman, the scene was one that filled him with the greatest wonder.
He remained by the rail, only able to look over the top of it by standing on his toes, and gazed on the sea until Bobby asked, impatiently:
“What’s the matter? Ain’t sick, are yer?”
Until that question was asked Tim had not thought of such a thing as being sea-sick; but the moment Bobby spoke it seemed as if the entire appearance of the water changed. Instead of looking grand and beautiful it began to have a sidelong motion, and to rise up and down in an uncomfortable way.
“No, I ain’t sick,” he said to Bobby, “but I feel kinder queer.”