the night, and some of the passengers felt the effect of
it, which spoiled the pleasure of the evening.

The water is nearly always rough at that point on the Atlantic coast.

The next morning, though, the bosom of the ocean seemed to be like a
vast mirror, so smooth was it. Seagulls were flying around, following
the ship to pick up such bits of food as the cooks and waiters cast
overboard. Some four or five gentlemen got out on the stern deck and
with revolvers were shooting at the birds.

Nearly a dozen shots were fired without a single seagull being hit.

All sailors object to passengers shooting at Mother Carey's chickens, as
they call the seagull, but the average passenger has no such
superstition.

"It's a pity," said Josie Elon, "to kill such beautiful birds. How white
and clean they seem to be, and what beautiful white wings they have.
Every feather seems to have been made of snow."

"They are very hard to hit," remarked Terry, "and only a good marksman
can hit one of them on the wing."

"Mr. Olcott, I have read in the papers about you and Mr. Fearnot being
the best marksmen in the country. Couldn't you kill one of them?"

"Yes, easily, and if you want a wing to place in your hat I will procure
it for you."

"I would like to have one so that I could examine the feathers."

"Wait, then, until I can get my revolver and I'll bring one down on deck
here so that you can examine it to your satisfaction." So he went to his
room and soon returned with his revolver.

"Now, let's get out on the middle of the deck and wait until one of the
gulls flies over us, then he will drop down on the deck and he can be
your prize."

He waited for about fifteen minutes before a gull flew directly
overhead, and then he quickly raised his revolver and fired. The bullet
actually cut the bird's head off and it fell fluttering to the deck.

Of course, the marksmanship created quite a sensation among the
passengers every one of whom exclaimed that it was an accident, and that
the gentleman might fire one hundred times again without bringing down
another bird, but not one of them thought to ask the name of the
gentleman who had fired the shot, for the ladies gathered around to
examine the beautiful plumage of the gull.

There were two or three ladies on board who had wing feathers of the
same kind in their hats, and some of them insisted on comparing the
wings of the dead gull with some found on the hats of the ladies.

Na