Running hastily out to the rail, where they expected to see the wharf with its bustling crowd of hucksters and passengers, they saw to their astonishment the green rolling billows of the ocean. To Bobby, who lived on an island, the sea was no new sight, and his astonishment was only occasioned by the fact that the steamer had left the dock; but to Tim, who had never seen a body of water larger than the river in Selman, the scene was one that filled him with the greatest wonder.
He remained by the rail, only able to look over the top of it by standing on his toes, gazing on the sea, until Bobby asked, impatiently, "What's the matter? ain't sick, are yer?"
Until that question was asked, Tim had not thought of such a thing as being seasick; but the moment Bobby spoke, it seemed as if the entire appearance of the water changed. Instead of looking grand and beautiful, it began to have a sidelong motion, and to rise up and down in an uncomfortable way.
"No, I ain't sick," he said to Bobby, "but I feel kinder queer."
"That's it! that's it!" cried Bobby, eagerly; "that's the way folks begin when they're goin' to be awful sick."
Tim looked up in despair. Each succeeding motion of the boat made him feel worse, and that was speedily giving place to a very uncomfortable sensation in the region of his stomach.
"What shall I do?" he asked, in a piteous whisper.
"Go to bed, an' you'll be all right in the mornin'. Where's your berth?"
Tim made a motion toward the forecastle, but did not trust himself to speak. His stomach was already in too queer a condition to permit of words.
"I'll go down with you, an' see that you're all right," said Bobby, sagely. "I'm used to goin' fishin' with father, and I won't be sick."