They ate breakfast under difficulties, and many cups of coffee were spilled in places not intended for them. But, for all that, it was jolly fun, and, donning oilskins a little later, they all went on deck, where they watched the big waves which were running quite high, their crests whipped into foam and spray by the wind, which every moment was increasing.
Tiring of the exposure to the rough weather, they came below in about half an hour, and put in the rest of the morning at various occupations. Some wrote letters, to be posted when sighting the next inward-bound coast steamer; Dick was going over some details of the mysteries of navigation with Captain Barton, and Beeby was peacefully slumbering, braced up on a divan, with many cushions to soften his descent in case he was pitched to the cabin floor.
The striking of eight bells, or the noon call to dinner, saw reassembled in the dining-room Dick and his friends. None of them seemed to have lost their appetites because of the rolling and pitching, for, by this time, even the most indifferent lad was a good sailor.
"Well, I guess we can sit down, and spill some soup in our laps," remarked the young yacht owner, looking around at his chums. "But, hold on, where's Tim?"
"He was here a while ago," volunteered Henry Darby. "I saw him going toward the engine room."
"Yes, he likes to see the machinery," added Frank Bender. "I'll call him." But Frank presently returned to report that Tim had not been in the engine compartment.
"Look in his stateroom; maybe he's asleep," suggested Beeby. "I had a nice nap myself."
But Tim was not there, and by this time Dick was becoming a bit worried. He and Paul made a search in various parts of the yacht, but Tim was not seen, nor did he answer their calls.
"That's rather odd," mused Dick, with a puzzled air.
"Did you look in the pilot house?" asked Frank. "Maybe he's in there with Captain Barton, who hasn't come out yet to get his dinner."