Molly’s place was between Kirke and Weezy and over against Captain Bradstreet.
“You’re Number Fifteen, Molly,” said Kirke, reading the black letters on his ivory napkin-ring. “You’re Number Fifteen and I’m Number Fourteen.”
“And I’m Number Sixteen,” added Weezy, after squinting hard at her own ring.
“Yes, they treat us as if we were convicts in a state’s prison,” Molly turned to Kirke with a shrug. “You know they make convicts drop their own names and answer to numbers.”
“I should have made a good convict, if I had worn those overalls and”—
But here Kirke was interrupted by a waiter bringing him a plate of soup.
They were a long time at dinner, which consisted of several courses and ended with harlequin ice-cream,—red, green, and white.
Donald’s nurse had given her charge an early supper in the children’s cabin, and when the party returned to the deck he was already in bed.
“My little brother can’t stay awake after dark ’cause it makes him cross,” Weezy frankly explained to the pale young lady in black with whom she had become friendly during dinner.
“Can’t he? That’s unfortunate,” replied the young lady, smiling.