“I’m afraid that mother wouldn’t agree to that. But I guess there’s nothing we can do.”
“I fancy you can send a cable from Venice,” said the captain; “you know Italy is neutral, like the United States.”
“I do hope we can.” And Sidney looked somewhat relieved.
They were two rather dejected boys, however, who turned back to the docks with Captain Foster. It was very hard to be obliged to give up all present thought of communicating with their mother. It seemed ages since they said good-bye to her in New York. The anticipation of sending a message had been so pleasant, and when that hope was suddenly dashed, their loneliness and homesickness were greater than ever.
When they arrived at the docks the boys saw a small, dingy steamer, that ordinarily would have appeared anything but attractive, but to the boys then she seemed finer than a big Atlantic liner. They were taken on board, and were shown to a tiny cubby-hole of a cabin that adjoined the captain’s own stateroom.
“This is not much of a cabin,”—and the captain looked about apologetically,—“but, you see, the Princess Mary was not intended to carry passengers.”
“Oh, I think it’s fine,” protested Sidney; and Raymond declared,—
“It’s perfectly swell! You may have the lower berth, Sid, and I’ll take the upper one.”
When the boys had thrown their blankets into the berths, the captain said,—
“Now, you come into my cabin; I’ve got a tub there, and I’ll have the cook bring you some hot water, and you can scrub as long as you want to.”