The boys transferred their cargo of bedding and eatables to the deck, and then scattered to ramble through the cabin or descend into the dark, musty hold. They came together again, and lugged their baggage into the cabin, save the dishes and eatables, which were stowed away on shelves.
"This is just splendid, Dick!" declared Dave, leaning over the vessel's rail. "It is going to sea without having the fuss of it."
"That's so, Dave. You don't have any sea-sickness, any blistering your hands with handling ropes, any taking in sail--"
"Oh, it's huge, Dick. Now you want to divide up the work."
"Not going to have any; all going to have a good time."
"But who's going to cook, and bring water, and--"
"Oh, I see! Forgot that."
A division of work was finally pronounced sensible. Dave became "cook," Jimmy Davis was elected "water-boy," Dick took charge of the sleeping arrangements, and the brothers Richards were constituted table-waiters and dish-washers--"without pay," Dave prudently added. All that day, up to twilight, life in the old fishing-schooner was smooth and happy as the music of a marriage-bell. Dave's cooking was adjudged "splendid," and between meals there were spells of story-telling, of games like hide-and-seek about the ancient hull, and of fishing from the deck, though there sometimes seemed to be more fishermen than fish.
At twilight most of the boys were seated in the stern of the vessel, looking out to sea and watching the light fade out of the heavens and the warm sunset glow steal away from the waters.
"There's the light starting up in the lighthouse near the bar," said Dab Richards.