With rub downs, dry garments of one kind and another, the increasing warmth of the fo’castle and the endless pranks that followed, the storm soaked youngsters were soon aglow with new life and vigor. Then came the raid on the cook’s galley. Jerry was not entrusted with the work of preparing the refreshment. Tom and Mac did that, and they went at the task as if time were no object.
Under Captain Joe’s direction, the other boys returned to the fo’castle, bundled up all the wet clothes and carried them to the engine room below deck. Hanging them on hastily strung lines, Captain Romano opened the ash pit doors below one of the boilers to provide a draft, and then boldly started a fire of wood on the iron floor of the room.
At two o’clock, each member of the party filed into the cook’s galley, and was handed his supper, a tin plate piled high with hot pork and beans, a thick section of canned corn beef—cold—two bananas, a half dozen freshly warmed ship’s biscuits and a big tin cup of sweetened coffee.
When the noisy feast was at an end, there was one more visit to the deck. The gale still held, but the rain had ceased, and the wind was going down. A few stars had reappeared, and the tossing shape of the Three Sisters could be made out in the distance. But it had grown decidedly cool, the biting spray of the still angry sea filled the air, and there was a moan on both sea and land.
“All snug,” was Captain Joe’s only comment. As he disappeared below to replenish his clothes-drying fire on the engine room floor, the weary boys made their way back to the fo’castle. Bob had selected an upper bunk well in the bow, and Mac was just beneath him. The moment the two boys were alone, Mac said, in a low voice:
“Say, Balfour, are you holdin’ anything agin me?”
“Are you still sore at me?” asked Bob in turn, with a smile.
Mac reached out his hand and Bob grasped it. After a moment’s silent embarrassment, Mac said: