“We really ought to have a brig,” said Nelson.
“What’s that?” asked Tom anxiously. “Can you eat it?”
“It’s a place where they confine sailors that don’t behave themselves, a sort of prison cell.”
“How would the ice box do?” Bob asked.
“Huh,” answered Dan, “that would be a prison cell on us; Tommy would eat up everything in there and then we’d have to knock the box to pieces to get him out.”
“Well,” said Tom in an aggrieved voice, “if I can’t be put in chains I refuse to mutiny.”
So he went for butter instead. Bob volunteered to start breakfast and Tom got into the tender and paddled off into the fog on his errand.
“If I get lost,” he called, “you must blow the whistle so I’ll know where to find you.”
“All right,” Nelson answered. “Only you’ll have to let us know.”
“Sure; I’ll send you a telegram.” And Tom disappeared whistling gayly.