"Our foresail has departed for Africa," Miss West laughed in my ear.
She is like her father, unaware of fear.
"And now we may as well go below and be comfortable," she said five
minutes later. "The worst is over. It will only be blow, blow,
blow, and a big sea making."
All day it blew. And the big sea that arose made the Elsinore's
conduct almost unlivable. My only comfort was achieved by taking to
my bunk and wedging myself with pillows buttressed against the bunk's
sides by empty soap-boxes which Wada arranged. Mr. Pike, clinging to
my door-casing while his legs sprawled adrift in a succession of
terrific rolls, paused to tell me that it was a new one on him in the
pampero line. It was all wrong from the first. It had not come on
right. It had no reason to be.
He paused a little longer, and, in a casual way, that under the
circumstances was ridiculously transparent, exposed what was at
ferment in his mind.
First of all he was absurd enough to ask if Possum showed symptoms of
sea-sickness. Next, he unburdened his wrath for the inefficients who
had lost the foresail, and sympathized with the sail-makers for the
extra work thrown upon them.
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