Peter Stratton had a weird dream. Perhaps it was the effects of the lobster that a friendly fisherman had given to the Rosalie's crew to supplement their sadly depleted larder.
He dreamt that he was lying on a slippery shelving rock, with his feet dangling in the water. There was a lobster tugging at his toes—a big fellow, tugging and biting hard. He wanted to shout for assistance, but a man, who strongly resembled the thief who had stolen the Olivette's warp, was cold-bloodedly ramming a rope's end into the Sea Scout's mouth. Peter couldn't prevent him. He had all his work cut out to hang on to the slippery rock with both his hands. Yet, in spite of his efforts, he was slowly yet surely sliding into the water, where myriads of crustacean fishes were awaiting him.
With a thud he alighted, not in the sea, but on the shelving floor of the fo'c'sle. He awoke with a yell, to find himself out of his bunk and lying in the angle formed by the floor and the rise of the opposite locker. Beating a tattoo with his bare foot upon Peter's face was Roche, while Bruin, thinking it was a rare bit of fun, was nibbling the Patrol-leader's toe.
For some minutes Stratton failed to grasp the situation. Then it dawned upon him. It was daylight—eight o'clock in the morning. The Rosalie was heeling badly, lying right over on her starboard side. The occupants of the three bunks on the port side had been unceremoniously ejected—mattresses, blankets, pillows, and all. Woodleigh, Warkworth, and Hepburn, occupying the starboard berth, had merely slid against the skirting, and were slumbering unconcernedly.
It was raining heavily. Drops were pelting on deck, and a considerable amount of rain was driving in through the partly-closed fore-hatch.
"What's happened?" asked Roche, struggling into his clothes.
"Hanged if I know," replied the Patrol-leader, still rather hazy as to which was a dream and which solid fact.
Just then Mr. Armitage, clad in oilskins, sou'wester, and sea-boots, made his way into the fo'c'sle—a matter of considerable difficulty, owing to the angle of the slippery ladder.
"Morning, lads!" he exclaimed. "I meant you to sleep as long as you liked, but the Rosalie won't let you, I see. Hallo! three still slumbering sweetly."
"What's happened, sir?" asked Roche.