They had now crossed the open sheet of water between Monomoy and Point Gammon, and had passed Bishop and Clerk’s lighthouse a mile to leeward, till it was already receding on the port quarter. The outline of Point Gammon showed dimly to windward. Taking a bearing on Hyannisport Light, Evans luffed and trimmed in the sheets a bit. Soon they were in the lee of Point Gammon where the water was smoother, and steering north-northwest picked up the spindle on Great Rock on the weather bow. Passing this they luffed close on the wind till they sighted the breakwater to leeward just before they brought the range lights in line. Inside the breakwater, Evans kept off and steered for the lights in the cottages that line the harbor shore, while the dark line of the land ahead loomed nearer and nearer, and its outline grew more distinct. The riding lights of some of the larger boats at anchor were now quite distinguishable from the cottage lights beyond. Evans went forward, cleared the anchor, and hauled down the jib, then returning to the wheel he picked his way in past some of the larger vessels to a snug anchorage near a group of Cape Cod catboats. The gale was still blowing hard and showed no signs of moderating, so he let go both anchors and gave them a generous allowance of scope. He made all snug on deck in spite of the darkness, with an alacrity born of long experience and the most intimate familiarity with every rope and cleat on his boat; then put up the riding light. With a careful look around he went aft into the cockpit, saying:
“Well, we’re all snug here. The holding ground’s good, so it can blow all it’s a mind to, and we shan’t drag. Let’s go below, get out of these wet oilers, and have something to eat.”
The hour was late for supper—a fact which did not militate against their appetites. In the cabin there was warmth from the little galley stove where the potatoes and rice were now done. Evans opened a tin of canned chicken and stirred the contents into the rice.
“Supper’s ready,” he said, putting some plates and bread on the table. “This chicken-rice mixture is about the easiest thing to get ready on a rough day, and it makes a pretty good meal in itself.”
They fell to like a pair of wolves, and Mortimer declared he had never found a meal more to his liking.
After supper Evans tumbled the débris into a big dishpan and began a hasty but effective dish-washing.
“Can I help?” asked Mortimer.
“You can wipe,” answered Evans, and tossed him a dish towel.
Before turning in, Evans took another look at the weather which still showed no signs of changing, and then the tired men took to their bunks, and darkness reigned in the little cabin except for a glimmer from the riding light through a porthole forward.
Tired as he was, it was some time before Mortimer fell asleep. The excitement of the squall and the novelty of his surroundings kept him awake, listening to the wind shrieking in the rigging. But the gentle rocking of the boat in her sheltered anchorage lulled him off at last to a deep sleep.