‘No,’ said I.
‘Oh, but look at the glass here,’ he exclaimed, indicating the scuttle or porthole, the thick glass of which showed gleaming, but black as coal against the night outside.
‘Why,’ said I, ‘the wet there is the sea; it is spray; nothing but spray.’
‘Hang all waves!’ he said in a low voice. ‘Why the dickens can’t the ocean always be calm? If I’d have known that this ship pitched so, I’d have waited for a steadier vessel. Will you do me the kindness to lift the lid of that portmanteau? You’ll find a flask of brandy in it. Hang me if I like to move. Sorry now I didn’t bring a cot, though they’re doocid awkward things to get in and out of.’
I found the flask, and gave it to him, and he took a pull at it. I declined his offer of a dram, and went to work to stow away some odds and ends which were in my trunk.
‘Don’t you feel ill?’ said he.
‘No,’ said I.
‘Oh, ah, I remember now!’ he exclaimed; ‘you were a sailor once, weren’t you?’
‘Yes; I had a couple of years of it.’
‘Wish I’d been a sailor, I know,’ said he. ‘I mean, after I’d given it up. As to being a sailor—merciful goodness! think of four, perhaps five months of this.’