The cabin was a “mess,” as Bill expressed it. The floor was covered with scattered heaps of riff-raff, oilskins, coats, empty bottles, and papers. On the table a box stood, its hinged lid thrown back.
“Medicine chest,” said Burgess, examining it. “And rum bottles aplenty. Somebody's been sick, I shouldn't wonder.”
The minister opened the door of one of the little staterooms. The light which shone through the dirty and tightly closed “bull's-eye” window showed a tumbled bunk, the blankets soiled and streaked. The smell was stifling.
“Say, fellers,” whispered Thoph, “I don't like this much myself. I'm for gettin' on deck where the air's better. Somethin's happened aboard this craft, somethin' serious.”
Charlie and Bill nodded an emphatic affirmative.
“Hadn't we better look about a little more?” asked Ellery. “There's another stateroom there.”
He opened the door of it as he spoke. It was, if possible, in a worse condition than the first. And the odor was even more overpowering.
“Skipper's room,” observed Burgess, peeping in. “And that bunk ain't been slept in for weeks. See the mildew on them clothes. Phew! I'm fair sick to my stomach. Come out of this.”
On deck, in the sunlight, they held another consultation.
“Queerest business ever I see,” observed Charlie. “I never—”