other and take me off when you can."

The ladies waved their farewells, for people soon grow familiar and
unconventional at sea. Blair shouted, "Lennard's a born hospital nurse,
but he'll overfeed your patient." Then amid falling shades and hollow
moaning of winds the yacht drove slowly away with her foresail still
aweather, and the fleet hung around awaiting the admiral's final
decision. The night dropped down; the moon had no power over the rack of
dark clouds, and the wind rose, calling now and again like the Banshee.
A very drastic branch of Lewis Ferrier's education was about to begin.

Dear ladies! Kindly men! You know what the softly-lit, luxurious
sick-room is like. The couch is delicious for languorous limbs, the
temperature is daintily adjusted, the nurse is deft and silent, and
there is no sound to jar on weak nerves. But try to imagine the state
of things in the sick-room where Ferrier watched when the second gale
came away. The smack had no mainsail to steady her, but the best was
done by heaving her to under foresail and mizen. She pitched cruelly and
rolled until she must have shown her keel. The men kept the water under
with the pumps, and the sharp jerk, jerk of the rickety handles rang all
night.

"She do drink some," said the skipper.

Ferrier said, "Yes, she smells like it."

Down in that nauseating cabin the young man sat, holding his patient
with strong, kind hands. The vessel flung herself about, sometimes
combining the motions of pitching and rolling with the utmost virulence;
the bilge water went slosh, slosh, and the hot, choking odours came