The man smiled pleasantly.
"All right," he agreed. "You can—tomorrow. But supper's ready now. Come on down."
They followed the Captain into the kitchen, where another man was placing a dish of potatoes on the wooden table, which did not boast of a cover.
"Meet Steve, ladies," her said—"my friend the pilot."
The girls nodded, and Dot asked, with anxiety, "But who's guiding the boat now, while Mr. Steve eats his supper?"
Both men laughed at her concern.
"There's another one besides us. He takes his turn, and so do I. We never all three eat or sleep at the same time."
It was a merry meal, though an exceedingly greasy one of fried potatoes and underdone bacon. The coffee, too, was none too good—for it was weak and muddy-looking. Nevertheless, both girls praised the supper extravagantly, for it tasted good to them, but they inwardly resolved to show the men the next day how food ought to be cooked.
The next two days passed pleasantly enough, for the girls were able to busy themselves with the meals, and the men's appreciation was plenty of reward for their efforts. In their off hours they relaxed by watching the ocean and scanning the sky for airplanes, the make of which Linda could often guess. Sometimes they played checkers with each other, or with Captain Smallweed, to the latter's delight. But never again was the suspicious-looking tool-box mentioned, until Linda herself handed it over to Steve, saying that she did not want to bother to take it to Havana.