Then up comes Vee, lookin’ as fresh and nifty as if she was just steppin’ out on the Avenue; and before I can duck behind anything she’s spotted me.

“Why, Torchy,” says she, “you don’t mean to say you’re feeling badly already!  Or is it because you’re leaving New York?”

Then I saw my alibi.  I sighs and gazes mushy hack towards the land.

“I can’t help it,” says I.  “I think a heap of that little old burg.  It—­it’s been mother and father to me—­all that sort of thing.  I’ve hardly ever been away from it, you know, and I—­I—­” Here I smiles sad and makes a stab at swallowin’ the lump.

“What a goose!” says Vee, but pats me soothin’ on the shoulder.  “Come, let’s do a few turns around the deck.”

“Thanks,” says I, “but I guess I’d better just sit here quiet and—­and try to forget.”

“Nonsense!” says Vee.  “That’s a silly way to act.  Besides, you ought to tramp around and get the feel of the boat.  You’ll be noticing the motion if you don’t.”

“Pooh!” says I.  “What this old boat does is beneath my notice.  She’s headed away from Broadway, that’s all I know about her.  But if you want someone to trail around the deck with, I’m ready.  Only I ain’t apt to be very cheerful, not for a while yet.”

Say, that dope of Vee’s about gettin’ the feel of the boat was a good hunch.  Once you get it in your legs the soggy feelin’ under your vest begins to let up.  Also your head clears.  Why, inside of half an hour I’m steppin’ out brisk with my chin up, breathin’ in great chunks of salt air and meetin’ that heave of the deck as natural as if I’d walked on rubber pavements all my life.  After that, whenever I got to havin’ any of them up and down sensations in the plumbin’ department, I dashed for the open air and walked it down.

Lucky I could, too; for about Friday afternoon we ran into some weather that was the real thing.  It had been cloudy most of the mornin’, with the wind makin’ up, and around three o’clock there was whitecaps as far as you could see.  Nothin’ monotonous or reg’lar about the motion of the Agnes then.  She’d lift up on one of them big waves like she was stretchin’ her neck to see over the top; then, as it rolled under her, she’d tip to one side until it looked like she was tryin’ to spill us, and she’d slide down into a soapsudsy hollow until she met a solid wall of green water.

“This is what we generally get off Hatteras,” says Vee, who has shown up in a green oiled silk outfit and has joined me in a sheltered spot under the bridge.  “Isn’t it perfectly gorgeous?”

“It’s all right for once,” says I, “providin’ it don’t last too long.  Everyone below enjoyin’ it, are they?”

“Oh, Auntie’s been in her berth for hours,” says Vee.  “She never takes any chances.  But Mrs. Mumford tried to sit up and crochet.  Helma’s trying to take care of her, and she can hardly hold her head up.  They are both quite sure they’re going to die at once.  You should hear them taking on.”