“Oh, nonsense!” he cried, with a poor attempt at heartiness. “You shall come on board. We too seldom meet with one of your quality to part so easily. You must make your excuses to your friends. Say you were kept a prisoner.” And he laughed loudly at his wit.
Good heavens! how I despised the man who could make a jest of a fellow-creature in such a strait! Had I been a swimmer, I would have taken the chance of a plunge over the side; but in my case that would have been little short of suicide.
“Come, sir, come! You make a poor return for my offer of hospitality,” he continued, banteringly; “you are not at all the same man I took you for at the inn.”
“Pardon me,” I returned, quickly, for his last remark spurred me to my utmost effort, “you gentlemen who go down to the sea in ships forget that we landsmen find even the wobble of a boat discommoding. No man is the same with an uneasy stomach.”
“Next thing to an uneasy conscience—eh, Mr. Johnstone?”
“Worse, sir, far worse. You may forget the one at times, but the other is never at rest.”
“Oh, well, we are for a time now, at all events!” he cried, with a ring of triumph in his voice, as we slowed up alongside the great ship, and the sailors made us fast by the ladder.
“After you, sir,” said my tormentor, as he pointed upward, and, willy-nilly, I mounted the shaking steps with the horrid thought that perhaps it was the last ladder I should mount save one that would lead to a platform whence I would make my last bow to a howling mob at Tyburn.
“It is fast growing dark, sir; we will not stand on ceremony,” said the captain, leading to the cabin.
“Do not, I pray,” I answered, with some firmness, for now I was only anxious for the last act of the ghastly farce to end; the suspense was growing intolerable.