The poor
little French cabin-boy was ill, too, and went around, with a
Nile-green countenance, waiting on people, before he was obliged to
retire from active service.
The pitching of the yacht was something so terrible that it got to be
hysterically funny. It couldn't seem dangerous with the sun streaming
down the companion-way and past my state-room windows. About five
o'clock on the second day they began to tack, and then I heard shrieks
of laughter and the crash of china, and groans from the saloon settee,
where young Bashforth was lying ghastly ill.
At the first lurch my trunk tipped over, and all the bottles on the
wash-stand bounded across to the bed, and most of them struck me on
the head. It frightened me so that I shrieked, and Jimmie came running
down to see if I was killed.
As I raised my head I saw his horrified gaze fairly riveted to my
face, and I felt something softly trickling down. I touched it, and
then looked at my hand and discovered that it was wet and red.
"Good heavens, your face is all cut open," gasped Jimmie, in a voice
that revealed his terror.
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