Godfrey bore the trial of the ship's motion without even losing his good-humour for a moment. Evidently he was fond of the sea. But Tartlet was not fond of the sea, and it served him out. It was pitiful to see the unfortunate professor of deportment deporting himself no longer, the professor of dancing dancing contrary to every rule of his art. Remain in his cabin, with the seas shaking the ship from stem to stern, he could not. "Air! air!" he gasped. And so he never left the deck. A roll sent him rolling from one side to the other, a pitch sent him pitching from one end to the other. He clung to the rails, he clutched the ropes, he assumed every attitude that is absolutely condemned by the principles of the modern choregraphic art. Ah! why could he not raise himself into the air by some balloon-like movement, and escape the eccentricities of that moving plane? A dancer of his ancestors had said that he only consented to set foot to the ground so as not to humiliate his companions, but Tartlet would willingly never have come down at all on the deck, whose perpetual agitation threatened to hurl him into the abyss. What an idea it was for the rich William W. Kolderup to send him here. "Is this bad weather likely to last?" asked he of Captain Turcott twenty times a day. "Dunno! barometer is not very promising!" was the invariable answer of the captain, knitting his brows. "Shall we soon get there?" "Soon, Mr. Tartlet? Hum! soon!" "And they call this the Pacific Ocean!" repeated the unfortunate man, between a couple of shocks and oscillations. It should be stated that, not only did Professor Tartlet suffer from sea-sickness, but also that fear had seized him as he watched the great seething waves breaking into foam level with the bulwarks of the _Dream_, and heard the valves, lifted by the violent beats, letting the steam off through the waste-pipes, as he felt the steamer tossing like a cork on the mountains of water. "No," said he with a lifeless look at his pupil, "it is not impossible for us to capsize." "Take it quietly, Tartlet," replied Godfrey. "A ship was made to float! There are reasons for all this." "I tell you there are none." And, thinking thus, the professor had put on his life-belt. He wore it night and day, tightly buckled round his waist. He would not have taken it off for untold gold. Every time the sea gave him a moment's respite he would replenish it with another puff. In fact, he never blew it out enough to please him. We must make some indulgence for the terrors of Tartlet. To those unaccustomed to the sea, its rolling is of a nature to cause some alarm, and we know that this passenger-in-spite-of-himself had not even till then risked his safety on the peaceable waters of the Bay of San Francisco; so that we can forgive his being ill on board a ship in a stiffish breeze, and his feeling terrified at the playfulness of the waves.