“Oh, what is it, doctor?” asked Mrs. Jimmie.  “What makes you look so queer?”

“This is iodine on her face.  Her bottle has emptied itself.  That is all.”

We gazed at each other for a moment or two, then I nearly went into hysterics.  Jimmie’s face was a study.

“You said it was blood, Jimmie,” I said.

“Well, you said it hurt,” he retorted.

“Well, it did.  When you said I was covered with blood it hurt awfully.”

The doctor went out much chagrined that he had not been called upon to sew up a wound.  I had a relapse, brought on by young Bashforth’s jeering remarks as he frantically clung to the handles of the locker which formed the back of the settee where he lay prostrate.

I was too utterly done up to reply, for two days’ violent seasickness rather takes the mental ginger out of one’s make-up.  But Fate avenged me in this wise.  The door of my state-room opened into the dining-room, and my bed faced the door.  Opposite to me was the settee on which Bashforth was coiled, and back of him was the locker for the tinned mushrooms, sardines, lobster, shrimp, caviar, deviled ham, and all the things which well people can eat.  This locker had brass handles let into the mahogany, and to these handles the poor fellow clung when the yacht lurched.

His cruel words of derision had hardly left his pale lips before they tacked again.  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.

Finally, Jimmie got sorry for him, and went and tried to pick him up.  But he was laughing so, he dropped him.

“Oh, Jimmie,” I pleaded.  “Don’t drop anybody who is seasick.  Drop well people if you must.  But put him on the settee carefully.”

“I’ll put him there,” said Jimmie, wiping his eyes on his coat-sleeve.  “But I don’t say I’ll do it the first time I try.  I’ll get him there by dinner-time—­I hope.”