“Isn’t any?” cried Dan, waking up very suddenly. “What the dickens are we going to do for breakfast?”
“There’s some lard,” murmured Tom.
Dan leaped out of his berth and rolled Tom onto the floor.
“Here, you! Are you telling the truth? Isn’t there really any butter for breakfast?”
“Not a bit,” answered Tom cheerfully. “We ran out of it yesterday noon and I forgot to get any last night. Butter’s very unhealthy, though, Dan; it gives a fellow boils. I read in a paper just the other day that we eat too much butter and grease. We really oughtn’t, you know.”
“I vote we make Tommy go and get some,” said Nelson, yawning and sitting up on the edge of his berth.
“Oh, I’ll go,” replied Tom, climbing to his feet, “if you think you must have it. It is bad for you, though, honest! Look at Dan’s complexion already! It’s awful! For his sake, Nel, supposing we leave butter out for a few days.”
“My complexion!” jeered Dan. “Look at your own, Tommy!”
“I have a perfect complexion,” said Tom gravely. “It is like peaches and cream. Yours is like—like apple sauce.” He bolted for the toilet room and got the door fastened behind him before Dan could reach him.
“Looks to me as though we were here for a while,” observed Nelson, glancing through a port at the impenetrable grayness outside. “We can’t go chugging around the place in this fog.”