"Seems good to taste somebody's cooking besides your own," he apologized. "When you've summered and wintered yourself, year in and year out, the thing gets pretty monotonous and you almost hate the sight of food."
"Then you're alone most of the time?" ventured Lane.
"Not most of the time, but all the time."
The boys would have liked to inquire further, but courtesy forbade, and their guest did not volunteer anything more regarding himself. He shifted the conversation to Nemo.
"Bright-looking dog you've got there!" he commented.
"Yes," said Jim. "And he's fully as bright as he looks. I see you've a dog and some cats aboard."
"Yes; and they're good company—better, in some ways, than human beings, for they can't talk back. The dog's Oliver Cromwell; and the cats I've named Joan of Arc, Marie Antoinette, and Queen Victoria. I must go aboard and give 'em their suppers."
He rose from the table.
"Come back again in an hour," invited Jim, "and we'll have some music. We've a violin here."
"I'll be more than glad to come," returned their guest. "Music's something I don't have a chance to hear very often."