“Well, we won't hurry,” said Mr. Linton. “Let the married men get on first.”
There were not many who did not hurry. A few of the older officers kept back; the majority, who were chiefly subalterns, made a dense crowd about the little room, their long-pent impatience bursting out at last. Passports examined, a procession began up the gangway; each man compelled to halt at a barrier on top, where two officers sat allotting cabins. It was difficult to see why both these preliminaries could not have been managed before, instead of being left until the moment of boarding; the final block strained every one's patience to breaking-point.
The Lintons and the Rainhams were almost the last to board the ship, having, not without thankfulness, relinquished their adopted babies. The officers allotting berths nodded comprehendingly on hearing the names of the two girls.
“Oh yes—you're together.” He gave them their number.
“Together—how curious!” said Cecilia.
“Not a bit; you're the only unmarried ladies on board. And they're packed like sardines—not a vacant berth on the ship. Over two thousand men and two hundred officers, to say nothing of wives and children.” He leaned back, thankful that his rush of work was over. “Well, when I make a long voyage I hope it won't be on a trooper!”
“Well, that's a bad remark to begin one's journey on,” said Jim Linton, following the girls up the gangway. “Doesn't it scare you, Miss Rainham?”
“No,” she said, with a little laugh. “Nothing would scare me except not going.”
“Why, that's all right,” he said. His hand fell on his sister's shoulder. “And what about you, Nor?”
The face she turned him was so happy that words were hardly needed.