“Darling Aileen,” said Miss Pritty, recovering from a paroxysm, “did you ever hear of any one dying of sea-sickness?”
“I never did,” answered Aileen, with a languid smile.
Both ladies lay in their berths, their pale cheeks resting on the woodwork thereof, and their eyes resting pitifully on each other.
“It is awful—horrible!” sighed Miss Pritty at at the end of another paroxysm.
Aileen, who was not so ill as her friend, smiled but said nothing. Miss Pritty was past smiling, but not quite past speaking.
“What dreadful noises occur on board ships,” she said, after a long pause; “such rattling, and thumping, and creaking, and stamping. Perhaps the sailors get their feet wet and are so cold that they require to stamp constantly to warm them!”
Aileen displayed all her teeth and said, “Perhaps.”
At that moment the stamping became so great, and was accompanied by so much shouting, that both ladies became attentive.
A few moments later their door opened violently, and Mr Hazlit appeared with a very pale face. He was obviously in a state of great perturbation.
“My dears,” he said, hurriedly, “excuse my intruding—we are—attacked—pirates—get up; put on your things!”