Joe Hungerford joined me as I left the table.
“Going to spend the night on deck?”
“It’s orders.”
A little moonlight had come filtering in between the decks, as the heavy moon rolled up over the horizon. A faint streak ran along the railing and touched the stanchions with the luster of fallen snow. In the shadows we could distinguish shapes stretched out on steamer chairs, while others arrived, trailing life preservers and rugs, with an occasional handbag.
“Quite a picnic.”
“Don’t like the children being around, Hungerford.”
“No, that’s not pleasant. If it weren’t for that, wouldn’t mind having a run in with a submarine. Hello—sounds like the anchor coming up.”
We mounted to the upper deck, under the open sky, with its opalescent tints and shifting clouds to the west. Red lights and green lights on ghostlike shadows dotted the stretch of foggy water. Ahead, from the last sentinel of the world underfoot, a shaft of light came whirling in broken iteration,—like a can of fire that a small boy whirls in the night. A group of sailors shuffled by. The shrill of a whistle, the thrum of engines, and ahead the whirling beacon crept around the bow and, returning, slid down amidships. The door shot out its feeble ray of light. A group from the smoking room crowded out to witness the running of the channel. Then, a sudden rise of voices.
“Well, bring on your submarines!”
“If they get us, I take my chances on deck.”