He turned to Carlin. "When I hear myself singing that, in my own quarters ashore, then I'm home—and not before."
He set to humming softly again:
"And it's O you little baby girl
Athwart your mother's lap——"
Suddenly he asked: "Were you ever away from home sixteen months?"
Carlin emphatically shook his head. "No, sir. A year once. And I don't want to be that long away again. Were you—before this cruise?"
"Five years one time."
"F-i-i-ve! Whee-eee! Pretty tough that."
"Tough? More—inhuman. A man can get fat on war, but five years from your family—!" He raised his face to the stars and whoofed his despair of it.
"My year away from home," said Carlin, though not immediately, "was in the Philippines—where I first met you—remember? The night you landed from the little tug you were in command of and a bunch of us—war correspondents we called ourselves—were gathered around a big fire."
Wickett nodded. "I remember. And pretty blue was I?"