It was not until the brig slowly paid off, heeling before the fresh breeze, and the outward-bound song began its chant about her forefoot, that he gathered up his baggage and went aft. Captain March was at the wheel.
"Go right down and make yourself to home," he said. "They'll show you your room. I declare, you take a hold like an old hand. We'll be sending you aloft in a few days."
Drew smiled, but shook his head.
"No," he said; "I shall stick to the deck."
As he went down the companionway and stepped across the cabin, he saw the round little form of Mrs. March kneeling before a locker in what was to be his room. She turned her head at the sound of his footsteps.
"I thought I'd tidy your room up a bit," she told him. "Gracious knows, it needs it. You'd think it started out as a carpenter shop or sail-loft, but got discouraged and ended up just plain litter. I guess Cap'n March has left house-cleaning out of his almanac. And he said this room was clean!"
"Oh, I am sure it will do nicely, Mrs. March," Drew replied. "My mother says I'm fond of a comfortable disorder."
"I guess men are all alike in that," she said: "they like a clutter—they think it's having things handy. But I hope you'll excuse my back," she went on. "I was just telling my daughter that I was almost ashamed to show my face to you. There I was scolding about Cap'n March being so late, when all the time you and he were so anxious to get off and he scurrying around to find a mate. I declare, sometimes it seems as if the good Lord didn't do his best by women when he gave them tongues. They're like drums to little children—make a dreadful noise and keep them from better things."
Drew smiled. It seemed clear that the captain had used some latitude in explaining his late return home. Meanwhile Mrs. March was backing out of the room.
"There," she said; "it's in a sort of order, if you don't look too close."