“Yes, very comfy. Jim, I think it’s rather jolly.”
“Of course it is,” said Jim. “You look snug enough. Sure you’re warm? And you know where the bell is, in case you want the stewardess?”
“Oh, I’m not going to want anything!” Norah answered. “I’m too sleepy. She creaks a lot, doesn’t she, Jim?”
“Who—the stewardess?” said Jim, puzzled.
“No, stupid—the ship. If she didn’t creak, and I wasn’t in a bunk, she would be just like a hotel.”
“Not much difference,” Jim answered. He switched off the light and unscrewed the port-hole, going out with a last cheery word. And then Norah found that there was another difference—through the open port came the sound of the sea. It rushed and boiled past, splashing on the side of the ship near her; somehow there was an impression of great speed, far greater than in daylight. Norah liked the sound. She went to sleep, with the sea talking to her.
CHAPTER VII.
OF FISHES AND THE SEA.
“BEING at sea,” said Wally, thoughtfully, “is very queer.”
“In what way?” demanded Norah.