“Yes, and those rascals would use the pistols, too!” was Spouter’s comment. “Both of those skunks are about as hard-boiled as they make ’em.”
“Yes, and the mate and the crew are just as vile,” added Fred.
Not having access to the compass on the ship, the boys had no means of knowing how the craft was headed. The fog was as thick as ever, and now the horn was kept sounding as the auxiliary engine drove the Hildegarde forward, the sails doing little to aid the progress of the craft.
Presently four bells struck, and one of the hands, a tall, lanky fellow who had been watching the boys furtively, came to them and announced that the evening mess was ready.
“You ain’t goin’ to git nothin’ like you’d git at that Astoria-Vanderbilt Hotel in New York,” he announced, his little eyes twinkling good-naturedly. “They don’t serve no table de hotie bill of fare on this schooner. You’ve got to have a cast-iron stomach to stand what you git.”
“I don’t think I care to eat,” announced Ralph. “We had a pretty substantial lunch on the motor boat.”
“The same here,” said Jack.
“Oh, well, we might as well see what they’ve got,” came from Andy, whose curiosity was aroused. In spite of the peril, the fun-loving Rover boy enjoyed the novelty of the situation.
“I think I could go any kind of a cup of coffee, as long as it was hot,” said his twin.
Led by the tall, lanky sailor, whose name they afterward ascertained was Ira Small, they sat down at one end of the mess table and were served with a stew of unknown ingredients, some rye bread and black coffee.