“That sea’s getting up right along,” said Tubby presently, as he unbound Hiram’s hands. “Say, Hiram,” he added anxiously, “you don’t get seasick easily, do you?”
“N-n-n-no, that is, I don’t think so,” sputtered Hiram rather dubiously.
“Well, don’t, I beg from my heart! Don’t get seasick till we get on land again.”
“I’ll try not to,” said the downeast boy seriously, ignoring the fine “bull” which Tubby’s remark contained.
“Reminds me,” said Tubby presently, “of what the sea captain said to the nervous lady. She went up to him and told him that her husband was scared of getting seasick. ‘My husband’s dreadfully liable to seasickness, captain,’ she said. ‘What must I tell him to do if he feels it coming on?’ ‘You needn’t tell him anything, ma’am,’ said the captain; ‘no need to tell him what to do—he’ll do it.’”
But somehow this bit of humor did not bring even a wan smile to Hiram, willing as he usually was to laugh at Tubby’s whimsical jokes. Instead, he turned a pale face on his companion.
“I—I—do feel pretty bad, for a fact!” he moaned.
“Oh, Jiminy Crickets!” wailed Tubby, “he’s going to be seasick!”
Hiram, with a ghastly face of a greenish-yellow hue, sank down on one of the lockers, resigning himself to his fate. The sloop began to plunge and tumble along in a more lively fashion than ever. Overhead Tubby could hear the trample of feet, as her crew ran about trying to weather the blow.
Suddenly, above the howling of the wind, Tubby heard a sharp click at the companionway door. The next instant the companionway slide was shoved back and a gust of fresh, salt-laden air blew into the close cabin. Stonington Hunt’s form was on the stairway the next moment, and Tubby, with a quick dive, threw himself on the floor in a corner, carrying out once more his rôle of the badly wounded scout.