But, saddest to relate, when he had in a measure recovered from his amazement and endeavoured to pick himself up from the floor, his head was swimming round and round like a humming-top. Poor Squire Brackett was, indeed, as addle-brained as a sailor that has had a day’s shore leave and has spent it among the grog-shops. With a groan of anguish, he relinquished all hope of treasure-hunting and crawled upon one of the berths, where he lay helpless, and muttering maledictions on the head of John Hart for not warning him of what was coming. “Hello, what’s the matter?” cried Ed Sanders, sitting up and addressing the squire, whose sudden downfall had awakened him. “The matter!” roared the squire, in a burst of energy and indignation—“the matter is, that you were down here sleeping like a mummy instead of attending to business on deck. Here’s a sea hit us and nearly turned the yacht upside down, and my neck nearly broken.” “Ho, we’re all right,” said Ed Sanders, intending to be reassuring. “Just a little swash from a steamer, I guess. She’s rocking a little, but there ain’t any harm in it.” The squire was so unutterably disgusted that he couldn’t find words to reply. What could he say to a man that assured him he was all right when he was beginning to feel the qualms of seasickness? There were no words in the language to do the occasion justice. Nor was he mollified or comforted by the appearance, the next moment, of John Hart at the companionway, also declaring that really nothing had happened—nothing of any consequence—and that he would be feeling as fine as an admiral in a few minutes. The squire tried to reply, but could only choke and sputter. “Nothing of any consequence, eh?” he groaned. “Oh, my head! O-h-h! If I die I hope they’ll indict John Hart for murder, and hang Ed Sanders for criminal negligence. Nothing of any consequence—but I know I’ll never live to see the end of this voyage.” The squire’s agitation was not abated with the rounding of the head of the island; for, with this, what slight sea was running was soon broadside on, so that it rolled the _Viking_ from side to side—not roughly, but enough to cause him untold misery. Finally, at John Hart’s solicitation, he was induced to return to the outer air, where he sat, wrapped up in two heavy blankets, shivering, and with his teeth chattering, although the day was exceedingly hot. When, at the close of the afternoon, they had arrived at Mayville, the squire had had enough yachting. He staggered ashore and took a carriage to the hotel, rather than spend the night aboard the _Viking_. “Well, sir,” said John Hart, some time the next forenoon, when the squire, improved in appearance and temper, had come down to the dock, “when do you expect that yachting party to arrive?”