“Oh, we’ll all go up,” said Dan. “I want a breath of air. How about the dishes, though?”
“Let ’em go,” muttered Tom lazily.
“Couldn’t I do them?” asked Spencer.
“Why—do you mind?” asked Nelson.
“I’d like to,” was the answer.
“All right, then; go ahead. I guess Tommy will let you.”
If there was any objection from Tom it was so slight that no one noticed it.
Up in the cockpit the Four made themselves comfortable in the chairs and on the seat, while Barry curled up into a perfectly round bunch in Dan’s lap. The breeze still held from the southward and the night was quite warm, and, although Bob continued to complain at intervals over the absence of moonlight, the stars glittered in an almost cloudless sky and shed a wan radiance of their own. Somewhere in the darkness along the wharves a concertina was stumbling uncertainly through the latest success in rag-time melody.
“Say, Bob,” said Dan, “you can do worse than that. Get your mandolin.”
So Bob got it and the concertina was soon drowned out. Spencer crept up and silently snuggled himself in a corner of the cockpit. The lights in the town went out one by one and four bells struck in the cabin.