You should hear them
taking on."
"How is it this don't get you, too?" says I.
"I've always been a good sailor," says Vee. "And, anyway, a storm is
too thrilling to waste the time being seasick. I always want to stay
up around, too, and repeat that little verse of Kipling's. You know--
'When the cabin portholes are dark and green,
Because of the seas outside,
When the ship goes wop with a wiggle between,
And the cook falls into the soup tureen,
And the trunks begin to slide--'
Doesn't that just describe it, though--that 'wop with a wiggle
between'?"
"As good as a thousand feet of film," says I. "Kip must have had some
of this fun himself. Here comes a wop for us. There! Great, eh?"
I hope I made it convincin'; but, as a matter of fact, I had to force
the enthusiasm a bit.
Not that I was scared, exactly: but now and then, when the _Agnes_
sidled downhill and buried the whole front end of her in a wave that
looked like a side elevation of the Flatiron Building, I'd have a
panicky thought as to whether some time she wouldn't forget to come up
again.
She never did, though. No matter how hard she was soused under, she'd
shake it off with a shiver and go on climbin' up again patient. There
was several vacant chairs at the dinner-table, and when I finally
crawled into my bunk about 9:30 I had to brace myself to keep from
bein' slopped out on the floor.
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