"Not exactly," said Mollie. "We're on what they call the Channel."
"Seems to me the waves are just as big as they are on the ocean, and the water just as wet," said the Unwiseman, as the ship rose and fell with the tremendous swell of the sea, thereby adding much to his uneasiness.
"Yes—but it isn't so wide," explained Mollie. "It isn't more than thirty miles across."
"Then I don't see why they don't build a bridge over it," said the Unwiseman. "This business of a little bit of a piece of water putting on airs like an ocean ought to be put a stop to. This motion has really very much unsettled—my French. I feel so queer that I can't remember even what la means, and as for kesserkersay, I've forgotten if it's a horse hair sofa or a pair of brass andirons, and I had it all in my head not an hour ago. O—d-dud-dear!"
The Unwiseman plunged headlong into his carpet-bag again and pulled the top of it to with a snap.
"Oh my, O me!" he groaned from its depths. "O what a wicked channel to behave this way. Mollie—Moll-lie—O Mollie I say."
"Well?" said Mollie.
"Far from it—very unwell," groaned the Unwiseman. "Will you be good enough to ask the cook for a little salad oil?"
"Mercy," cried Mollie. "You don't want to mix a salad now do you?"