Leslie and Guy slept badly that night. The bunks felt uncomfortable, weird noises overhead and strange groanings as the old vessel strained in the long, oily swell, the somewhat close atmosphere 'tween decks, all combined to disturb the slumbers of the two chums. Glad were they when, at the first blush of dawn, they were able to leave their strange beds and go on deck.
It was a glorious morning. The sun had just risen above a low-lying bank of haze. The surface of the North Sea was ruffled by a gentle breeze. All around the sea and sky met in an unbroken horizon. Not another sail was to be seen.
The only member of the crew already on deck was Peter, the ship's boy, who was steering with the skill of a born sailorman, keeping the stiff little ketch "full and bye" without shiver in her well-stretched canvas.
"Good-morning, Peter," said Guy. "It looks as if it's going to be a jolly fine day."
"Not for trawling," replied Peter sagely. "Might do for pleasure folk, but the wind'll die down when the sun gets up, and more'n likely there'll be a fog."
"Where do we wash?" inquired Leslie innocently. Peter grinned.
"There's a canvas bucket up for'ard," he informed his questioner. "Just you strip, and get t' other gent to swill you down. That's what we do."
As Peter had prophesied, the wind did fall to a dead calm. Leslie and Guy had a swim over the side, getting on board again by means of a tarry rope.
For the rest of the day the Laughing Lassie drifted idly, until about an hour before sunset, when a smart breeze helped her on her way.
Skipper Runswick declared that the nets would be shot directly the ketch arrived at her favourite fishing ground. It would mean a night's work, he admitted, but no doubt the young gents would sleep throughout the noise on deck.