“I’ve got no use for scenery,” growled Tom, “unless I can get close enough to it to put my foot on it. I want something solid.”
“How would a beefsteak do, Tom?” It was Jo, who was looking over Jim’s shoulder. At the mention of food, Tom seemed endowed with sudden energy and reached down, and grabbing up a shoe, hurled it at the two in the doorway. They ducked and the missile barely grazed the beard of the old captain, who was coming aft, and then it went overboard.
“By Thundas!” he exclaimed, opening his eyes wide with surprise, “who kicked that?”
“Tom threw it, sir,” said Jim with a burst of laughter he could not control, at sight of the captain’s astonished visage, “but he meant it for us, because we were guying him.”
“I’ll forgive him on account of his intentions,” grinned the captain. “I only wish he had swatted you.”
Tom was much relieved to hear this expression of opinion on the part of the captain, of whom he stood in considerable awe. From fright to relief was such a revulsion of feeling that Tom forgot to be sea-sick, and he began to mend from that moment, so that he was able to be present for duty when breakfast was served.
“I thought you were sick abed,” remarked Jim, opening his eyes with surprise.
“I was,” replied Tom, “until I threw up that shoe, now I feel fine and fit to eat a square meal.”