Ten minutes later the crew in their quarters were astonished to see the old man’s son enter. None of them stirred.
“I say, any you chaps got an extra suit of twill? This uniform is getting too thick for this latitude. I’m fair melting down to the bone.”
“Sure!” bellowed a young giant, swinging out of his bunk. He rummaged round for a space and brought forth a light-weight khaki shirt and a pair of ducks. “Guess these’ll fit you, sir.”
“Thanks. Navy stores?”
“Yes, sir. You’re welcome.”
Dennison’s glance travelled from face to face, and he had to admit that there was none of the criminal type here. They might carry through 183 decently. Nevertheless, hereafter he would sleep on the lounge in the main salon. If any tried to force the dry-stores door he would be likely to hear it.
At eleven o’clock the following morning there occurred an episode which considerably dampened Jane’s romantical point of view regarding this remarkable voyage. Cleigh had gone below for some illuminated manuscripts and Dennison was out of sight for the moment. She leaned over the rail and watched the flying fish. Suddenly out of nowhere came the odour of whisky.
“You ought to take a trip up to the cutwater at night and see the flying fish in the phosphorescence.”
She did not stir. Instinctively she knew who the owner of this voice would be—the man Cunningham called Flint. A minute—an unbearable minute—passed.
“Oh! Too haughty to be a good fellow, huh?”