CHAPTER XIII
TWO ARE MISSING
Night came on; dark, heavy clouds were hanging low in the sky, the wind shrieking dismally.
The jackies, however, were happy. They were not disturbed by the roar of the gale. So rough was the sea, however, and so heavy the roll of the ship, that it was decided not to set the mess tables for the evening meal. The men sat around on the lower decks, legs crossed, balancing themselves and their plates of food, joking and laughing over the little mishaps of their companions.
Down in the captain's quarters matters were little better. Most of the time the commanding officer was holding to his own table with both hands. A plate of hot soup had just turned turtle, landing in his lap, soiling the spotless uniform that he had put on after returning from the bridge. The officers in the ward room, where all the other commissioned officers eat, were having their own troubles.
All at once there was a yell. Some tumbled over backwards in their chairs, while others sprang up and scrambled out of harm's way, as a huge object came hurling through the air. It landed full force on the mess table, the table going down beneath it with a mighty crash.
The dark object was the ward-room's upright piano. The captain, hearing the crash, rushed in from his quarters adjoining.
"What's wrong?" he shouted.
"Nothing, captain. There's music in the air, that's all," answered the ship's surgeon. This put all hands in good humor, even though a quantity of china had been utterly ruined.