“The Perseus—from Australia.”
“Last port?”
“Las Palmas.”
“What are you doing in here?”
“Wireless orders.” Norah smiled a little at the evident note of grievance in Captain Garth’s voice—as who should say, “I never asked to come!”
The gunboat moved on, until it was directly under the bridge. Norah could hear curt instructions as to anchoring. Then the fierce little grey boat darted away across the harbour.
She dressed hastily. Everything had been left ready overnight, and her little cabin wore a strangely cheerless aspect, denuded of all its homelike touches and with labelled and corded luggage lying about. Jim and Wally found her ready when they looked in on their way to the deck.
“Put on your biggest coat,” Jim said. “It’s colder than anything you ever dreamed of. To think they’re probably having bush-fires on Billabong!”
“I wish we had one here!” said Wally, shivering.
There were yellow lights still showing in the houses round the harbour, but daylight had come, and soon they began to twinkle out. It was a bare coast, with a grey castle on one headland—behind it, on a long rise, a dense cluster of huts that spoke of military encampment. The harbour itself was full of ships; among them, the Perseus, largest of them all, was going dead slow. The crew could be heard exchanging greetings with deck-hands engaged in morning tasks on vessels lying at anchor—question and answer ran back and forth; war news, curiosity about the long voyage, and often, “Goin’ to enlist, now you’re home?” Every one was excited and happy; the crew were beaming over their work; the stewards—most of whom had declared their intention of enlisting—wild with joy at the thought of home after their long months of absence.