The sweeper on the deck moved the chairs near her and even her own, though without her leaving it, the better to clear off the moisture which the fog had deposited. She had echoed his laugh and he remarked:
“Nice boy, ‘Bashful’ is; but no more fitted to go round ’mongst strangers’n a picked chicken.”
Both the sailor and Dorothy were glad to speak with anybody, and she asked:
“Will this fog last long? Is it often so cold right in the summer time?”
“Cold enough to freeze the legs off an iron pot, slathers of times. This is one of ’em! As for fogs lastin’, I reckon, little Miss, there won’t be no more sunshine ’twixt here and Yarmouth harbor. If you’re cold out here though, and don’t want to go to your room, you’ll find things snug down yonder in that music-room, or what you call it.”
“Oh! is there a place? Under shelter? Will you show me?”
“Sure. If ’tis open yet. Sometimes it’s shut overnight but likely not now. I’ll take them rugs for you, Sissy, if you like.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much. How nice everybody is on a steamship! Is it living all the time on the water makes you kind, I wonder?”
“Give it up!” answered this able seaman, not a little flattered by Dorothy’s appreciation of his service, and in Molly’s own frequent manner. With another smile at this memory, Dorothy followed as he walked ahead, dragging his mop behind him and leaving a shining streak in his wake.
They found the little saloon, music-room, writing-room, or “what you call it,” closed, but the door opened readily enough, and Dorothy was delighted to creep within the warmth and comfort of the place. It was dark inside but the man turned on the electric light, and, doffing his cap, went out, shut the door behind him, and left her to her solitary enjoyment.