He put his hand on his stomach and said, “Oh, my!” and then staggered away and fell over the coop of a skylight. Presently another old gentleman was projected from the same door with great violence. I said: “Calm yourself, Sir--There is no hurry. It is a fine day, Sir.” He, also, put his hand on his stomach and said “Oh, my!” and reeled away. In a little while another veteran was discharged abruptly from the same door, clawing at the air for a saving support. I said: “Good morning, Sir. It is a fine day for pleasuring. You were about to say--” “Oh, my!” I thought so. I anticipated him, anyhow. I stayed there and was bombarded with old gentlemen for an hour, perhaps; and all I got out of any of them was “Oh, my!” I went away then in a thoughtful mood. I said, this is a good pleasure excursion. I like it. The passengers are not garrulous, but still they are sociable. I like those old people, but somehow they all seem to have the “Oh, my” rather bad. I knew what was the matter with them. They were seasick. And I was glad of it. We all like to see people seasick when we are not, ourselves. Playing whist by the cabin lamps when it is storming outside is pleasant; walking the quarterdeck in the moonlight is pleasant; smoking in the breezy foretop is pleasant when one is not afraid to go up there; but these are all feeble and commonplace compared with the joy of seeing people suffering the miseries of seasickness. I picked up a good deal of information during the afternoon. At one time I was climbing up the quarterdeck when the vessel's stem was in the sky; I was smoking a cigar and feeling passably comfortable. Somebody ejaculated: “Come, now, that won't answer. Read the sign up there--NO SMOKING ABAFT THE WHEEL!” It was Captain Duncan, chief of the expedition. I went forward, of course. I saw a long spyglass lying on a desk in one of the upper-deck state-rooms back of the pilot-house and reached after it--there was a ship in the distance. “Ah, ah--hands off! Come out of that!” I came out of that. I said to a deck-sweep--but in a low voice: “Who is that overgrown pirate with the whiskers and the discordant voice?” “It's Captain Bursley--executive officer--sailing master.” I loitered about awhile, and then, for want of something better to do, fell to carving a railing with my knife. Somebody said, in an insinuating, admonitory voice: “Now, say--my friend--don't you know any better than to be whittling the ship all to pieces that way? You ought to know better than that.” I went back and found the deck sweep. “Who is that smooth-faced, animated outrage yonder in the fine clothes?” “That's Captain L****, the owner of the ship--he's one of the main bosses.”