The swinging lamp outside was turned low and the main cabin empty. He stole cautiously out and then ascended the companionway to the deck.
Luckily, the companionway entrance was below a break in the stern so that the man at the wheel—Pompey—could not see him as, crouched almost double, he crept forward to the small deck house where Noddy had his berth. It was a wild night. Big seas, their white tops luminous, raced by, towering above the schooner’s rail. The speedy little vessel was heeled over almost on her beam ends at times, but she appeared remarkably seaworthy.
Not a soul could be seen on deck except Pompey’s dark form at the wheel, revealed by the faint glow-worm light of the binnacle lamp. At last Raynor, with infinite caution, reached Noddy’s sleeping place. He rapped three times, as they had agreed, and the door was opened.
Raynor almost uttered a cry of alarm as the portal was pulled back by Noddy. He saw what appeared to be a human face enveloped in pale green fire, out of which shone two luminous eyes.
“Swell ghost, eh?� chuckled Noddy, pulling him inside. “I made de stuff out’n match heads. Come on, here’s some fer you. Rub it on yer face an’ den I’ll give you yer shroud.�
He held up a shapeless-looking garment of white sail cloth that he had made, and at the same time cautiously turned up the flame of a lantern that stood in a corner so that Raynor could see.
“I don’t believe we can get away to-night in a small boat,� declared Raynor as he daubed on the phosphorescent solution under Noddy’s directions.
“Why not?� asked the Bowery lad.
“It’s too rough. Feel how the schooner is pitching. It’ll make the small boat dance about worse.�
“Well, we gotter take our chances on dat,� decided Noddy, “we’ll take a look when we git outside.�