Roughriders of the Pampas: A Tale of Ranch Life in South America

"One moment please, steward!"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring a little soup and a piece of bread at once, please."

"Soup, sir. Yes, sir."

The steward bustled off, and returned within a minute with a steaming bowl of pea soup.

"Thank you," said the tall passenger who had called for it, nodding pleasantly, and with a knowing wink. "Not for me, steward. For this young gentleman here. Now, sir, tackle that. You will feel a man again. There, don't think me interfering and presumptuous. We are fellow passengers, and you are in want of a little help and advice. Come, set to work at it and you will feel yourself again. You've been feeling very ill. Everyone does that at first, and we have had a dusting in the bay. But that soup, believe me, will do a world of good to you."

The tall stranger leaned on the edge of the saloon table and spoke kindly to the pale-faced youth sitting exactly opposite him. He had noticed Dudley Compton on the day of sailing, for there was something striking about the young fellow. Then he had lost sight of him for three days, for outside the mouth of the Mersey the brig had run into a nasty sea, and had held on right into the Bay of Biscay, lashed all the way by a stiff gale, which had caused her to flounder and roll, and had kept her decks incessantly washed by the spray and the rollers which broke aboard. Of the twenty or more passengers aboard but two had put in an appearance at meals in the saloon, and for them, hardy travellers though they were, eating had been a matter of difficulty, for the table was decked with fiddles, and every scrap of crockery and glassware was secured. To eat soup one had to cling to the basin with one hand and to the spoon with the other, while one balanced oneself in his seat as skilfully as the elements allowed.

Dudley had been utterly miserable. He had not been five miles to sea before, and he had succumbed to nausea within two hours. For three days he had lain in his bunk, tossed this way and that, utterly prostrate, and careless of the many bruises he received, for he was thrown out of his berth on several occasions. Now his natural courage had forced him to get up, for he was not the lad to lie and sulk at any time, and not the one to be easily beaten.

"I feel horribly ill and giddy," he said to himself that morning, "and I really shouldn't mind much if I heard we were sinking or had run on a rock. But a fellow can't stand more of this kind of thing. They'll think I'm shamming. I'll make an effort to get up."

He crawled from his bunk and struggled into his clothing, a process accomplished by dint of clinging to the bunk, and very often interrupted by a pitch and a roll which sent him into the corner of the narrow box which went by the name of cabin. He clambered to the deck and was promptly requested to retire by a bandy-legged seaman, clad in shining oilskins.