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.
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