“Hadn’t he a ticket?” asked Jim.
“Not a ticket—not that that matters, of course, with so empty a ship. No trouble for them to fix him up. But he seems to expect a good deal, for an eleventh-hour passenger.” Mr. Linton yawned. “The sea is making me sleepy already,” he declared, disappearing into his cabin.
It made Norah sleepy very early that night. After the lengthy dinner was over, they went on deck, where strolling was difficult because of the absence of lights; and the rushing water overside was a mysterious mass, dark and formless. All the best of Norah’s world was with her—and yet she was homesick. Somewhere beyond the rail over which they leaned was home; they were lonely at Billabong, and here it was lonely, too.
She gave herself a little mental shake. After all they were together—and that was really all that mattered.
“I’m sleepy,” she declared.
“Then turn in,” Jim counselled. “I’ll come and open your port when I go down. Can you find your way?”
“It’s time I learned, at any rate,” said Norah, sturdily.
She found it, after a few wrong turns, and made short work of preparing for bed. The stewardess looked in to find out if she could be of any use, and went off, with a brisk “good-night.” The cabin was cheery and homelike—full of the scent of Bush flowers, and pleasant with photographs, that seemed to smile to her. She was not nearly so lonely when at last she slipped into bed, under the grey ’possum fur—and the little bunk was comfortable and quaint, and made her feel that she was really on board ship.
Jim looked in presently.
“Comfy, little chap? And how do you like it?”