“Girls,” Virginia said in a tone of authority, “I want you all to go down in the hold. At least it is sheltered there from this wet wind. I will stay on deck and watch for the light of a steamer.”
Margaret and Eleanor protested. “Let three go down and three remain on watch for a few hours, then change about as real sailors do,” Megsy suggested.
“Please let me do it my way.” Virginia’s voice sounded so imploring that the other girls went below decks, and, letting down the two old bunks, they huddled upon them to keep warm.
Betsy, bent on keeping up the spirits of her comrades, began to sing, but Babs hushed her. “Don’t!” she begged. “You’ll make me cry.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Betsy stopped singing to suggest, “let’s each take a turn at crying, while one of us counts fifty. A girl always thinks she has to cry, and the sooner we get the tears spilled out, and done with, the better. Now Babs, one, two, three.”
Betsy’s monotonous recital of the numbers ended abruptly for Babs had laughingly clapped her hand over the mouth of her tormentor.
“I’m not going to cry, really. None of us are. We’d be ashamed to, with Virg so brave, up there all alone on deck.”
For a while they were silent. The swish of the water against the sides of the boat had a lulling sound, and, one by one, the girls made themselves as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances, and went to sleep.
Meanwhile, Virginia, alone on the deck, knelt down in silent, strength-giving prayer. A fog-horn, from somewhere, sounded dismally at intervals. Margaret, unable to sleep long, soon slipped up on the deck, and, groping her way toward her friend, she sat close beside her and reached for her hand and so they sat, waiting, watching as the dark hours slowly passed.
New hope crept into the heart of Virginia with the coming of the dawn.