Finally the time came when the Evening Star was ready for sea, and Ned congratulated himself upon the fact, for, once under way, it was hardly probable the captain would have a great deal of time to devote to him.
His first experience at sea was so much like what other fellows, who have ventured upon the ocean for sport rather than from necessity, have known, that there is no reason why it should be given in detail here.
The brig sailed out of the harbor in the early morning, and before twelve o’clock poor Ned was in the forecastle believing his last hour was very near at hand. It seemed to him that the sailors were a particularly hard-hearted set of men to laugh and make sport of a dying boy, for he was fully convinced he would not live until morning.
Death was not as near as he had fancied, however, although he did not feel very much better at sunrise.
Then the mate came into the forecastle, and, after asking how he felt, said:
“You had best come aft, lad. The room off the pantry is the proper bunk for you, and once clear of this foul place you’ll get well a great deal faster.”
“Where is the captain?”
“In his room. He hasn’t turned out yet, and you’ll have a chance to get settled in the new quarters before he shows up.”
Ned was more than willing to make the proposed change. The odor, the jokes of the sailors, as well as the fumes of tobacco smoke, were decidedly trying to a weak stomach, and he managed to crawl from the berth unaided, thanks to the promise of an improvement in the surroundings.
Mr. Stout so far unbent from the dignity of a first officer as to assist him across the deck and into the tiny room which was half-filled with stores of various kinds; but, regardless of the limited accommodations, Ned felt he was very fortunate in getting quarters where he could be alone.