"Broth, ma'am," he said politely to Mollie.
"Thank you," said Mollie. "I think I will."
Whistlebinkie and the Unwiseman also helped themselves, and a few minutes later the Unwiseman disappeared bearing his cup in his hand. It was three hours after this that Mollie again encountered him, sitting down near the stern of the vessel, a doleful look upon his face, and the cup of chicken broth untasted and cold in his hands.
"What's the matter, dearie?" the little girl asked.
"O—nothing," he said, "only I—I've been trying for the past three hours to find out how to tie a sinker to this soup and it regularly stumps me. I can tie it to the cup, but whether it's the motion of the ship or something else, I don't know what, I can't think of swallowing that without feeling queer here."
And the poor old gentleman rubbed his stomach and looked forlornly out to sea.