But his apprehensions were presently distracted by the motions of the ship under him--motions which at length became erratic and even alarming.

For the _Good Intent_ was not only heaving up and down, but seemed to be tearing forward in a series of vehement rushes, with intervals of languid indecision.
Tristram's stomach soon began to abhor these intervals, and in a little while he found himself wondering to what end he had set aside half a loaf from his breakfast.

For, as it seemed to him, he was going to die, and the sooner the better.
"Decidedly," he thought, "my breakfast was poisoned, else I could never feel like this." The _Good Intent_ took another lurch forward, and a clammy sweat broke out on both sides of his forehead.
"If I have enemies so wicked," sighed he, "may God forgive them!" And, uttering this Christian wish, he fell forward with his forehead against the boards.
A little past noon the sentry brought him a fresh loaf, with a plate of fat bacon and another pannikin.

The sea being choppy, by this time the vessel echoed from end to end with groans and lamentations.
"Is it a massacre ?" Tristram asked, sitting up and regarding the man with wild eyes.

But the sight of the bacon, which was plentifully doused with vinegar, conquered him afresh.