Joe's thoughts probably might have been put into
words thus: "Yes, I see you doing it, but--but _why?_"
Steve didn't go down to the cabin for dinner, but ate it as best he
could on the bridge. Neil, in his capacity of cabin-boy, arranged a
folding stool beside him, and from that, at intervals between moving the
wheel, blowing the whistle or anxiously scanning the course, Steve
seized his food. The others descended to the main cabin and squeezed
themselves about the table, which, adorned with a cloth of wonderful
sheen and whiteness that bore the cruiser's former name and flag woven
in the centre, held a plentiful supply of canned beans, fried bacon,
potato chips, bread and butter and raspberry jam. Everything was
thrillingly fine, from the pure linen tablecloth and napkins to the
silverware. The plates held the same design that was worked into the
napery, as did even the knives and forks and spoons. Ossie was
apologetic as to the menu, although he need not have been.
"There wasn't time to do much cooking," he said, "and, besides, I
haven't got the hang of things yet. I never tried to do anything on an
alcohol stove before. It takes longer, seems to me. I couldn't get the
oven heated until about five minutes ago, and so if those potato-chips
aren't very warm--"
"I'm warm enough, if they aren't," said Neil.
Pages:
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54