How the ship was wallowing! She plunged and rolled in a strange corkscrew manner that made the tiny walls of the galley swim wildly about him.
"What's th' matter?" the cook jibed. "Sick?"
Tod smiled wanly. "Oh, no! Only I don't feel very well."
The Tattooed Man's white teeth flashed in a wide grin. "Sufferin' halibut!" he murmured. "Our little Joe Macaroni is seasick!"
"No, I'm not," Tod denied valiantly. "Only—this sea. It's sort of rough, isn't it?"
"Rough? Naw, this is only small rolls. Just wait'll we hit a real nor'wester, and then we'll get dirty weather. Git busy, see?"
The floor of the galley heaved as a shudder went through the ship. Spume flew like rain past the portholes. The copper pots on the wall tolled dismally. The pan of potatoes slid slowly across the floor, and Tod, reaching to grasp the runaway, felt his knees tremble.
"Yeh," grunted the cook, "that's a big one. Kind of got yuh, did it?"
Tod in silence admitted that it had. The walls of the galley careened appallingly; the floor tilted up and down every moment; the potatoes became a blurred mass in a swimming pan. His stomach felt queer, his head hot. He gasped.
Nausea gripped him.
The Tattooed Man gazed at him in scorn. "Git, you landlubber," he bellowed. "You're sick. You won't be worth the price of a herring till it's over. Now, git."
Tod went. He grasped the door for support and stumbled down the alleyway to the forward deck, where the men on watch, with swabs and holystone, sent buckets of sea water sluicing his way. Indifferent to the amused, contemptuous glances, he lurched to the rail. Here the biting wind met his cheek with a welcome caress.
At sea. At sea in the tramp steamer Araby. The irony of the thought burned in his brain. He had no dreams of high adventure now; other matters required his attention.
A few minutes later he crawled weakly along the bulwarks toward the seamen's forecastle. He wanted his bunk. He wanted it more than all the rosy visions of his mind. It had become a haven of rest in a world cruel and heartless, a world of mountainous seas whose white crests foamed high above the forecastle head.
From stem to stern the Araby was lashed by heavy sprays. She rose on a swell, then plunged. By golly, was she never coming up? Yes; she shuddered; she rose with a brave yet sluggish motion. The flood poured past.
Tod reached the iron wall of the forecastle head; it was cold and clammy to his touch. It was sheltered here by two short wings which housed the boatswain and Chips the carpenter on the port side, and the washroom on the starboard. He breathed easier; he held his way past the firemen's forecastle to the second doorway. Down the three steps of the ladder he half fell to the thick stuffy atmosphere of the seamen's quarters. He dimly saw the members of the watch below at rest after their weary morning, playing cards, reading, unpacking their duffle bags; their figures were blurred in a blue haze of cheap tobacco smoke that hung stagnant in the air.
"Blimey, the kid's sick." It was the cockney's taunting voice.
"Aye, he looks green as er lizard."
Amid laughs and jeers, Tod climbed up to his bunk. He dropped flat on his back. Ah, this was better; this was heaven after the warm odours of cooking in the galley. Just to rest. Let the crew rave; he didn't care.
"Ain't our new cabin boy cute, now, mitey," went on Toppy. "I bet the bloomin' cook is 'appy, too. And what'll our chow be like, I asks yer, with the kid gone. He'll never get well. Blimey, we'll 'ave t' toss him over ter th' fishes."
"Shut yer jaw!" cut in Nelson the Dane. "Leave the kid alone."
"Look 'ere, now," said Toppy, aggrieved. "Cawn't I even open me mouth on this bloomin' ship? A bloke like you ain't got no right—"
"Aw, hold yer jaw or I'll twist yer blasted neck off."
"Yah, dat's ril" drawled Swede Jorgenson.
The cockney spat viciously. "Th' kid's a toff, that's what 'e is. He ain't got the guts—"
Tod saw a shoe cut the blue fog of smoke. It crashed against a bunk and brought a yell of rage from Toppy. Above the muttered imprecations Tod heard a boatswain's pipe sound above.
"All hands on deck!"
The cry came down from the doorway like a sudden pistol shot. With muttered curses the men pulled on their shoes.
"Didn't I tell yer this ship wasn't no good? She can't stand even a sou'wester, she can't."
"Yes, nice way to begin a passage. She'll knock to pieces in a sea. Sorry I ever signed on."
Grumbling still, they climbed the steps to deck.
"Good-bye, kid," yelled Toppy from the entrance. "An' look 'ere, if the bloomin' ship starts to sink, I'll call yer. It ain't nice ter drown down there. No, it ain't nice."
Tod heard him laugh as he closed the iron door.
The boy lay silent. The deserted forecastle was dark with shadows. To his right a twilight of powdered blue pressed against the glass of the portholes, like three round eyes, faintly luminous, peering within. Close at hand he heard the seas pounding on the bows, and the whistle of the gale outside. Beneath him the bunk rose with a great swinging movement, quivered for a moment, then plunged down into what seemed a black abyss. He closed his eyes. Let her sink; he didn't care. Anything to end this awful misery.
But it wasn't fair. This was his first voyage, his first day out, and they had to hit a storm. Sheila Murray had put him aboard this ancient tramp with its strange crew of men and its strange officers. Their figures passed like a dream across his vision: the weak captain, the burly first mate, the youthful third officer, the Tattooed Man in the galley. And his forecastle mates. Sheila Murray—Neil! He had almost forgotten his brother.
No, it wasn't so bad. He'd do anything for Neil. He had told Sheila Murray that. Yes, if he had it to do over, he'd ship again on the old tramp. True, this was not the sea that he had dreamed of. All those books he had read had lied. Yes, lied. They hadn't told the truth. None of them had been like this. And that book he'd read on the train—"The Lookout: A Romance of the Sea." Rotten stuff! He'd toss it overside.
Well, to-morrow he'd get his sea legs. He'd work. He'd show them. What was it that Toppy had said in his elegant language—he hadn't the guts? He had. Just wait. He'd be tough; he'd be hard-boiled. He'd swear too, by golly 1
The plunging and rolling of the ship increased, but his mind cleared. He was sick, deathly sick. He admitted that, even as his mouth became a straight determined line in his flushed face. Romance? No, not this. He almost smiled. This was the real stuff.
Presently he became aware that a hand was dragging at the door. In the gloom he saw the Swede, huge and fair with his child-like face, descend the steps.
"The cook sent yuh this lemon," he began in his slow deep voice as his dog-like eyes searched Tod's face. "He wants t' know as how ye feel. He says, 'Ask Joe Macaroni if he still thinks the sea is wonderful.' "
Tod rose on one elbow. His white face screwed into a smile. "Tell him," he answered slowly, "that I think it's great. It is wonderful. I wouldn't be back in Frisco for all the money in the world. Blimey, no. This bloke won't be a lubber very long."
Jorgenson put up his hand and touched Tod's moist hot brow. "Now, matey, yoost lay down. Yah, you got fever. I'll tell the cook you be on deck in couple o' days."
"Couple of days! Say, I'll be serving breakfast in the cabin to-morrow morning."
"Yah—yah." The Swede turned and climbed the steps. "I'll tell him you said it ain't so bad."
"Bad?" Tod shouted after him. "You tell the bloomin' cook it's great. By golly, this is the best little freighter that ever hit the Pacific I"
As Jorgenson let himself out, Tod heard the whine of wind in the rigging, and the beat of rain on deck. With a frantic movement he picked up the lemon and bit into its acid centre.