Part 17 (2/2)

I had expected to go to sleep as soon as I lay down, but I found the cabin rather close and stuffy. Sprague and Ed Mason didn't seem to mind it,--they lay still, and were evidently asleep. I hitched about for a while, and finally decided to go up on deck.

It struck me that I could sleep better there.

So I took a pillow and went up. Gregory was sitting in the c.o.c.k- pit, contentedly smoking a clay pipe and watching the sails with the air of an owner. Pete and the Chief were both sitting quietly in the stern. The Chief was again at the wheel. I found some canvas, part of a sail-cover, and stretched myself out on a seat, with the canvas over me to keep off the dampness. In a minute or two I was asleep,--the best and most refres.h.i.+ng sleep I ever remember. All through the rest of the night I was dimly aware of the sound of the water about the bows, and the cool breeze on my face.

When I woke it was broad daylight. The boat had come to a stop, the mainsail was down, and they were taking in the jib. I heard the anchor go over with a splash, and then Pete came running aft.

”Hullo! Awake? How are you?”

”All right. Where are we?”

”I don't know. Unknown island.”

I sat up and looked over the starboard side of the boat. We were in a little bay, and there was land about a hundred yards distant, --a rocky island with pine trees, and two or three small cottages set amongst the trees. I heard someone talking on the other side of the boat, and I looked up forward to see Sprague, in a bathing suit, and Gregory the Gauger. Sprague was entertaining the Gauger with a poem which he had been reciting at intervals ever since we met him.

”'She'd git her little banjo an' she'd sing Kulla-lo-lo!'--but not in Bailey's Harbor,--hey, what? She wouldn't get her little banjo there, or you'd run her in, wouldn't you, Squire? You and the Constable!”

”Where did you get that poem?” asked Pete, who was furling the sail.

”I read it in a paper last week. Isn't it great? It's by a man with a funny name,--I wish I could remember it! 'An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!' That's the way the dawn does come up over there, isn't it? Ever been in China, Squire?”

”No, I haint,” said Gregory. ”Where be you fellers goin' to put me ash.o.r.e? That's what I want to know.”

”All in good time, Squire, all in good time. Watch this,--I bet you can't do it!”

And Sprague made a clean dive and scoot under the water, came up thirty feet away, and commenced to float, facing the boat, and waggling one big toe at Gregory the Gauger.

It did not take me two seconds to know what I wanted to do, nor two minutes to get overboard. The water was cold, but I swam around the yacht, before I climbed out again. One by one the others came up from below, and they all jumped over for a swim, except Gregory and the Chief. The latter went poking about, in his silent, methodical way, paying no attention to the orders which Sprague fired at him.

”Food! food!” called the banjo-player, climbing aboard; ”my wasted frame cries aloud for food. Get out the frying-pan, Chief, and the coffee-pot! Move about more briskly,--remember that I have been many days on bread and water in a dungeon ... Oh, hang it!”

He floundered about in his s.h.i.+rt, which he had put on wrong side foremost in his hurry.

”Fish out those eggs, and see if there are any rolls left,--I'll match you for yours, Squire. You won't be hungry, you haven't been in swimming.”

”Ketch me goin' into that water!” returned Gregory, ”I'll make my abbalootions right here.”

And he proceeded to wash his face and hands over the stern of the boat. We were all very much awake now, very hungry, and no longer tired. The swim had opened our eyes. The drowsy moonlight world had gone and given place to one of suns.h.i.+ne. A breeze rattled the halliards against the mast, and ruffled the blue water of the bay in little patches. We hurried into our clothes, while the Chief warned us to keep out of the c.o.c.kpit, and not get everything wet.

Sprague struggled with his s.h.i.+rt, and declaimed his favorite poem in a m.u.f.fled tone.

”'And the flyin' fishes play,'--And speaking of flying-fishes, where is Simon? Has he had his morning swim? ... Oh, there he is, --paddling about like a good one! Swims like a duck, doesn't he, Squire?”

”There's nothing for breakfast except bacon and eggs,” said the Chief.

”And coffee and rolls,” added Pete, ”what more do you want, you old lemon?”

”No, there are only three rolls. Some of us will have to eat crackers.”

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