The passengers are occasionally attracted by whales, and are much interested in watching them. Frequently two or three may be seen following the vessel for miles and miles at a time, to get such food as may be thrown overboard. Then they strike out ahead of us, or to one side, chasing each other through the water. These monsters of the deep remind me of a former class-mate, who was noted more for genial nature than for strong intellect. One day, while the class in chemistry were reciting, he said:
“Professor, I understand that fish is good brain-food. Is it true?”
The teacher replied: “Yes, I am disposed to think there is some truth in the statement.”
“I am glad to know that, Professor, I am going to try it. How much do you think I ought to eat?”
“Well, Sir,” responded the sarcastic professor, “I should recommend at least half a dozen whales.”
I am sure, however, that when I last saw the student in question he had not begun the eating of fish.
The fourth day is stormy and the sea rough. The women and children are sick, very sick. The men are thoroughly prepared to sympathize with them. They all lose their sea-legs. The vessel is turned into a hospital. It is really amusing to hear the different expressions from these afflicted sons of Adam.
One fellow, amid his heaving and straining, says: “I am not ‘zac’-ly sea-sick, but my stomach hurts me mightily.”
Another, in like condition, says: “If they would stop the ship only five minutes I would be all right.”
In the midst of the severest agony, an old gentleman ejaculates something like this: “I left my children and loved ones at home, and I expect to return in four months; but I would stay in Europe four years, if I knew there would be a railroad built across in that time.”