sea-sickness; sometimes I think it was reading 'Robinson Crusoe,'
and books warning of me _not_ to go to sea."

Frank laughed. "You're an odd fellow. What do you mean by false
pride at getting over sea-sickness? Did you get over sea-sickness
in some new way?"

John Want's dismal face brightened in spite of himself. Frank had
recalled to the cook's memory one of the noteworthy passages in
the cook's life.

"That's it, sir!" he said. "If ever a man cured sea-sickness in a
new way yet, I am that man--I got over it, Mr. Frank, by dint of
hard eating. I was a passenger on board a packet-boat, sir, when
first I saw blue water. A nasty lopp of a sea came on at
dinner-time, and I began to feel queer the moment the soup was
put on the table. 'Sick?' says the captain. 'Rather, sir,' says
I. 'Will you try my cure?' says the captain. 'Certainly, sir,'
says I. 'Is your heart in your mouth yet?' says the captain. 'Not
quite, sir,' says I. 'Mock-turtle soup?' says the captain, and
helps me. I swallow a couple of spoonfuls, and turn as white as a
sheet. The captain cocks his eye at me. 'Go on deck, sir,' says
he; 'get rid of the soup, and then come back to the cabin.' I got
rid of the soup, and came back to the cabin. 'Cod's
head-and-shoulders,' says the captain, and helps me. 'I can't
stand it, sir,' says I. 'You must,' says the captain, 'because
it's the cure.' I crammed down a mouthful, and turned paler than
ever. 'Go on deck,' says the captain. 'Get rid of the cod's head,
and come back to the cabin.' Off I go, and back I come. 'Boiled
leg of mutton and trimmings,' says the captain, and helps me. 'No