"Leave them—for a little while."
The woman nodded. They left father and daughter together. The Missus led the way to the mess-cabin, where they found Pontifex opening a bottle of wine. Up above, feet were trampling the deck, and the brig was heeling a trifle.
"A real dinner!" exclaimed Pontifex heartily. "A real wedding dinner, eh? Mr. Leman has the deck, my dear, and he's called all hands; so for once we'll have a quiet family meal, eh? Where's Mrs. Dennis? Oh, with her father, of course. A sad meeting for her!"
"Yes. But for you, Captain Pontifex, there would have been none at all," said Dennis warmly. "We owe you a good deal——"
"There, there, don't mention it!" Pontifex gave his curled mustache a twirl, and his white teeth flashed out in a smile. "We'll have our pay, never fear, the Missus and I. Talk it over in the morning, eh? I suppose you're pretty familiar with your Dumas, Mr. Dennis? Well, well—a bother having to change our anchorage this way, but the port authorities know their business these war-times, of course. Well, sit down."
The dinner was excellent—although, owing to the motion of the ship, the dishes joggled more than a little. Captain Pontifex made light of it, explaining that they might not reach their new anchorage until midnight.
With the coffee was served a liqueur, the most peculiar and biting Tom Dennis had ever tasted. The skipper stated that it was a queer distillation made from flour and molasses by a Siberian Eskimo—quite a rarity. Perhaps it was this liqueur which made Tom Dennis most unaccountably sleepy; indeed, he could hardly stumble off to the mate's cabin which had been assigned him and Florence. And as he retired, he could faintly hear the roaring bellow of Boatswain Joe, somewhere on deck:
"She was waiting for a fair wind to get under way,
A long time ago!"
The last vague thought of Tom Dennis was a mental query as to why Captain Pontifex had asked him if he were familiar with Dumas. He was to remember it later, also.