Practice went on without further interruption until lunch time, and everybody did ample justice to the well cooked meal. The constant exercise, combined with the invigorating sea air, gave them appetites that it took much to satisfy, and which caused wondering comment in the galley.
“Zey eat more zan I zink possible,” the little French chef had exclaimed at the beginning of the voyage, with uplifted hands. “I cook an’ cook, and still zey have not too much. Mon Dieu! Zey will drive me—wat you call heem—bughouse. Eet is no wondaire zey are strong.”
In one way the little cook was not displeased, however, for at any rate he could complain of no lack of appreciation of his cooking.
After everything had been demolished the athletes repaired to the deck, and did whatever pleased them for a couple of hours. Some played deck games, while others were content to read or gaze out idly over the sparkling blue ocean. The weather was ideal, and since the storm that had wrecked the schooner hardly a cloud had appeared in the sky. Bingo appreciated the fair weather immensely, and began to get his looks back, which had suffered somewhat under his recent hardships. He was now firmly intrenched in the affections of every athlete on board, and had been accepted unreservedly as their mascot.
He was friendly with everybody, but his real affection seemed divided between Bert, Tom and Dick. He always followed them around, and evidently considered them his especial guardians, as they had been his rescuers.
They in turn saw that he had plenty to eat, and made a great pet of him generally. He seemed to take a deep interest in everything that went on, and would watch the boys training with the wisest look imaginable on his doggish face.
This particular afternoon he was not in sight, however, when Dick and Bert went to hunt up Drake. They found him finally, stretched out in a steamer chair, and reading a book as though he had nothing in the world on his mind.
“Sit down, fellows, and take a load off your feet,” he said, as Bert and Dick came up, “what’s the good word this afternoon?”
“Oh, there’s nothing particular doing,” replied Bert, as he took his seat on the edge of the rail, balancing back and forth with the motion of the ship at imminent risk of being spilled into the ocean, “it seems like the calm preceding the storm.”
“By storm meaning to-night, I suppose,” said Drake smiling, “but I’m not worrying about it, so why should you?”