He was not holding on, but he hastily snatched at the
handles. He was too late, however, for he was tossed from the settee
to the legs of the dining-room table (which, fortunately, were
anchored) without touching the floor at all. He described a perfect
parabola. It was just the way I should have tossed him had I been
Destiny. He gripped the table-legs like a vise, coiling himself around
them like a poor navy-blue python with a green face. He thought the
worst was over, but in his last clutch at the locker he had
accidentally opened it, and at the next lurch of the yacht all the
cans bounded out and battered his unprotected back like a shower of
grape-shot. The yacht lurched again and the cans rolled back. She
pitched forward, and again the mushrooms and deviled ham aimed for
him. The noise brought everybody, and at first nobody tried to help
him. They just couldn't see because of the tears in their eyes from
laughing. As for me, I managed to crawl to the foot of the bed and
cling to a post, so weak I couldn't wipe the tears away, but laying up
an amount of enjoyment which will enrich my old age.
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