"Boys," Leon would ask, "ain't you going to get up? The air is fine on deck."
Had he but known it, Moe Griesman developed day by day, with growing intensity, that violent hatred for Leon that the hopelessly seasick feel toward good sailors; while toward Abe, who groaned unceasingly in the upper berth, Moe Griesman evinced the affectionate interest that the poor sailor evinces in any one who suffers more keenly than himself.
At length Nantucket lightship was passed, and as the sea grew calmer two white-faced invalids, that on close scrutiny might have been recognized by their oldest friends to be Moe and Abe, tottered up the companionway and sank exhausted into the nearest deckchairs.
"Well, Moe," Leon cried, as he bustled toward them smoking a large cigar and clad in a suit of immaculate white flannels, "so you're up again?"
The silence with which Moe received this remark ought to have warned Leon, but he plunged headlong to his fate.
"We are now only twenty hours from New York," he said, "and suppose I go downstairs and bring you up some of them styles which I got in Paris."
"You shouldn't trouble yourself," Moe said shortly.
"Why not?" Leon inquired.
"Because, for all I care," Moe replied viciously, "you could fire 'em overboard. I would oser buy from you a button."
"What's the matter?" Leon cried.