“Wretches!” said the old lady who knitted. She was still busy at her khaki muffler.
“It’s war,” said the young officer, hurrying off. On the lower deck the stewards and crew were mustered, awaiting inspection. After answering to their names they took their usual boat-stations, without the ordinary signal. The chief cook was cheery.
“No luncheon to cook!” quoth he, pleasantly. “And no need to abuse any one for not having cleared up properly after breakfast! Well, I’ve always heard that every dog gets a holiday one day in his life; it’s an ill wind that blows nowhere!” He rallied the butcher on his downcast mien.
“Think of all the good meat that’s going to the bottom!” said the butcher, gloomily.
“Wot I think is, that I won’t have to ’andle any of it,” said the gay cook. “Don’t you never get fed-up with the very thought of meat, butcher? Sometimes I dreams of it all night!”
“Ijjit!” said the butcher. He withdrew himself, and sat on the edge of a boat, wrapped in melancholy.
Slowly, faint streaks of pink showed in the eastern sky, and a pale flush crept upwards. The sun came out of the sea, as if reluctantly, unwilling to bring such a bitter morning.
“They’ll stop us soon, now,” Jim said. “Sure you’ve got all your wraps, Norah?” He had asked the question three times already, but Norah smiled up at him.
“Yes—and my nice old ’possum-rug,” she said. “Won’t it be a comfort in the boat, Jim?”
“It ought to help you to get a sleep,” Jim said. “Air-cushions packed? You’ll have to get Grantham to blow them up for you, since I won’t be there; he’s in your boat.”