“Sweet dreams!”
“Did I hear something drop?” asked a voice.
“Very high sea to-night!” remarked another.
Nelson struggled free of the clinging folds of the wet blankets and stood up shivering in the darkness. It had been so sudden and so unexpected, for all the warning he had received, that he didn’t quite know yet what had happened to him. Then a match flared, a lantern was lighted, and the tennis-racket youth was holding it out to him.
“Did the water get you?” he asked calmly.
“Rather!” answered Nelson. “I’m soaked clear through!”
“Better get your panoramas off, then,” said Hethington. “I’ve got some dry ones you can have. I’ll look ’em up.” And he climbed leisurely out of bed.
By that time Tom had come to the rescue with an armful of dry blankets from an unoccupied bunk. The tin lard can was kicked out of the way, the wet mattress turned over, and the new blankets spread. Hethington tossed over the dry pajamas, and Nelson, his teeth chattering, got into them and looked about him. As far as he could see in the dim light white-robed figures were sitting up in their bunks regarding him with grinning faces. There was something expectant in both faces and attitudes, and Nelson realized that they were awaiting an expression of his feelings. With a glance that encompassed the entire assemblage, he remarked earnestly, but more in sorrow than in anger:
“Well, I hope you choke!”
A shout of laughter rewarded him, while a voice from the nearer dimness remarked audibly: