XXV.
OVER THE WATER.
We had what they called the “dead-lights” put in the ladies’ cabin at Gravesend: that will show what the weather was expected to be in the open sea. In the saloon, things were pitching about before we reached Margate. Rounding the point off Broadstairs, the steamer caught it strong and sharp.
“Never heed a bit of pitching: we’ve the wind all for us, and shall make a short passage,” said the captain in hearty tones, by way of consolation to the passengers generally. “A bit o’ breeze at sea is rather pleasant.”
Pleasant it might be to him, Captain Tune, taking in a good dinner, as much at ease as if he had been sitting in his dining-room ashore. Not so pleasant, though, for some of us, his passengers.
Ramsgate and other landmarks passed, and away in the open sea it was just a gale. That, and nothing less. Some one said so to the man at the wheel: a tall, middle-aged, bronzed-faced fellow in shirt sleeves and open blue waistcoat.
“Bless y’re ignorance! This a gale! Why, ’taint half a one. It’ll be a downright fair passage, this ’un will, shorter nor ord’nary.”
“What do you call a gale—if this is not one?”
“I ain’t allowed to talk: you may see it writ up.”