"Say, Mr. Robert," says I, when no one else is around, "how long can
anybody be seasick and live through it?"
"Oh, it is seldom fatal," says he. "The victims linger on and on."
"Hal-lup!" says I. "And I'll bet that roly-poly Mrs. Mumford comes
twice a day to coo to me. What did I ever get let in on this private
seccing for, anyway?"
CHAPTER XII
TORCHY HITS THE HIGH SEAS
Well, I got to take it all back--most of it, anyway. For, between you
and me, this bein' a seagoing private sec. ain't the worst that can
happen. Not so far as I've seen.
What I'm most chesty over, though, is the fact that I've been through
the wop and wiggle test without feedin' the fishes. You see, when the
good yacht _Agnes_ leaves Battery Park behind, slides down past Staten
Island and the Hook, and out into the Ambrose Channel, I'm feelin' sort
of low. I'd been lookin' our course up on the map, and, believe me,
from where New York leaves off to where the tip end of Florida juts out
into the Gulf Stream is some wide and watery jump. No places to get
off at in between, so far as I can dope out. It's just a case of
buttin' right out into the Atlantic and keepin' on and on.
We hadn't got past Scotland Lightship before the _Agnes_ begins that
monotonous heave-and-drop stunt.
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