easickness begins on your toes, and you feel as though the toenails
were being pulled out with pincers, and the veins in your legs seem to
explode, your arms wilt like lettuce in front of a cheap grocery, your
head seems to be struck with a pile-driver and telescoped down into your
spine, and your stomach feels as though you had swallowed a telephone
pole with all of the cross arms and wires and glass insulators, and you
wish lightning would strike you. Gosh, but dad was hot when he found
that he was sick that way, and when we got ashore he wanted to kill the
first man he met.

He thinks that it is a crime for a man not to understand the English
language, and when he tells what he wants, and the man he is talking to
shrugs his shoulders and laughs, and brings him something else, he wants
to pull his gun and begin to shoot up the town, and only for me he would
have killed people before this, but now he takes it out in scowling at
people who do not understand him. Dad seems to think that if he cannot
make a man understand what he says, all he has to do is to swear at the
man, but there is no universal language of profanity, so the more dad
swears the more the nervous Frenchman smiles, and acts polite.

I think the French people are the politest folks I ever knew. If a
Frenchman had to kick a person out of doors, he would wear a felt
slipper, and after he had kicked you he would place his hand on his
heart, and bow, and look so sorry, and hurt, that you would want to give
him a tip.

O, but this tipping business is what is breaking dad's heart. I think
if the servants would arrange a syndicate to rob dad of two or three dol
lars a day, by pocket picking, or sneak thieving, he would overlook
it, and say that as long as it was one of the customs of the country
we should have to submit to it, but when he has paid his bill, with
everything charged extra, and the servants line up and look appealingly,
or mad, as the case may be, dad is the hardest man to loosen that ever
was, but if they seem to look the other way, and not, apparently, care
whether they get a cent or not, dad would go and hunt them up, and
divide his roll with them. Dad is not what you would call a "tight wad,"
if you let him shed his money normally, when he feels the loosening
coming on, but you try to work him by bowing and cringing, and his
American spirit gets the better of him, and he looks upon the servant as
pretty low down. I have told him that the ti