“That’s it! that’s it!” cried Bobby, eagerly; “that’s the way folks begin when they’re goin’ to be awful sick.”
Tim looked up in despair. Each succeeding motion of the boat made him feel worse, and a very uncomfortable sensation in the region of his stomach was rapidly adding to his terror.
“What shall I do?” he asked, in a piteous whisper.
“Go to bed, an’ you’ll be all right in the mornin’. Where’s your berth?”
Tim made a motion toward the forecastle, but did not trust himself to speak. His stomach was already in too queer a condition to permit of words.
“I’ll go down with you, an’ see that you’re all right,” said Bobby, sagely. “I’m used to goin’ fishin’ with father, an’ I won’t be sick.”
Tim was about to follow his friend’s suggestion, when the horrible thought occurred to him of what the result might be in case Captain Pratt knew of his being in bed in the daytime, and he went to ask advice of old Mose.
But one glance at his pale face and quivering lips was needed to show the old negro that the captain’s boy was sea-sick, and before Tim could attempt to speak he said:
“Am yer sick, honey? There’s only one way fur yer to do, an’ that’s to turn right in an’ wrastle it out. Go right to yer bunk, an’ I’ll ’form Mr. Rankin what ails you.”