“Well, we’re in pretty good shape, considering what happened to us,” finally announced Joe. “What time does the dinner gong ring, captain? It looks to me like eight bells now.”
“My watch has stopped,” said Tom, taking his water-soaked timepiece out of his pocket, “but—”
“The sun is good enough bell for me,” laughed Abe. “It’s twelve now, if I’m any judge,” and he looked up at the ball of yellow fire in the sky.
“Then we’ll eat,” decided Tom. “Shall I steer while you—”
“No sir!” exclaimed Joe. “Captain’s table is first, always. I’ll mind the wheel, not that there’s much steering to be done, only we might as well have things ship-shape while we’re at it, I suppose.”
The meal was not an elaborate one, but there was no disposition to find fault—at least on the part of the more mature members of the shipwrecked party. As for Jackie, Tom played the “pretend” game with him once more until the child was satisfied that canned beef was roast chicken.
The water they had to drink was warm, and not very palatable, but they made the best of that, too, thankful that they had any with which to cool their parched throats.
After dinner they made a more complete survey of the derelict, which had not been possible earlier in the morning, as the sea was still running rather high. Now the ocean was like the proverbial millpond, and only occasionally a wave washed slightly over the submerged bow of the craft.
“The forward companionway is almost out of water,” observed Joe, looking thoughtfully at it. “If we could lighten the ship a bit I believe I could get into it.”
“What good would it do?” asked Tom.