To his dismay he found when he awoke in the morning that what little wind there was had dropped in the night, and the billy-boy was just rising and falling lazily on the water in a fashion most objectionable to an empty stomach. It was the last straw, and he made things so uncomfortable below that the crew were glad to escape on deck, where they squatted down in the bows, and proceeded to review a situation which was rapidly becoming unbearable. “I’ve ’ad enough of it, Joe,” grumbled the boy. “I’m sore all over with sleeping on the floor, and the old man’s temper gets wuss and wuss. I’m going to be ill.” “Whaffor?” queried Joe dully. “You tell the missus I’m down below ill. Say you think I’m dying,” responded the infant Machiavelli, “then you’ll see somethink if you keep your eyes open.” He went below again, not without a little nervousness, and, clambering into Joe’s bunk, rolled over on his back and gave a deep groan. “What’s the matter with _you!_” growled the skipper, who was lying in the other bunk staving off the pangs of hunger with a pipe. “I’m very ill—dying,” said Jemmy, with another groan. “You’d better stay in bed and have your breakfast brought down here, then,” said the skipper kindly. “I don’t want no breakfast,” said Jem faintly. “That’s no reason why you shouldn’t have it sent down, you unfeeling little brute,” said the skipper indignantly. “You tell Joe to bring you down a great plate o’ cold meat and pickles, and some coffee; that’s what you want.” “All right, sir,” said Jemmy. “I hope they won’t let the missus come down here, in case it’s something catching. I wouldn’t like her to be took bad.” “Eh?” said the skipper, in alarm. “Certainly not. Here, you go up and die on deck. Hurry up with you.” “I can’t; I’m too weak,” said Jemmy. “You get up on deck at once; d’ye hear me?” hissed the skipper, in alarm. “I c-c-c-can’t help it,” sobbed Jemmy, who was enjoying the situation amazingly. “I b’lieve it’s sleeping on the hard floor’s snapped something inside me.” “If you don’t go I’ll take you,” said the skipper, and he was about to rise to put his threat into execution when a shadow fell across the opening, and a voice, which thrilled him to the core, said softly, “Jemmy!” “Yes ’m?” said Jemmy languidly, as the skipper flattened himself in his bunk and drew the clothes over him. “How do you feel?” inquired Mrs. Harbolt. “Bad all over,” said Jemmy. “Oh, don’t come down, mum—please don’t.” “Rubbish!” said Mrs. Harbolt tartly, as she came slowly and carefully down backwards. “What a dark hole this is, Jemmy. No wonder you’re ill. Put your tongue out.” Jemmy complied. “I can’t see properly here,” murmured the lady, “but it looks very large. S’pose you go in the other bunk, Jemmy. It’s a good bit higher than this, and you’d get more air and be more comfortable altogether.”