CHAPTER XVII
THE LIGHTED WINDOW
It was after eight o’clock, as dark as Egypt and a great deal damper on board the Aydee. Phebe’s teeth insisted on chattering whenever she spoke, in spite of her efforts. Arnold had draped the one spare sail the boat afforded, a storm jib, about her, but it didn’t seem to keep the dampness out very well. Arnold and Toby were chilled through. The lanterns were lighted, although they couldn’t have seen a boat’s length away. Arnold had long since stopped talking about food, or about anything else, for that matter. Conversation had died away more than an hour since, save for a hopeful prediction from Toby a minute or two ago to the effect that he thought he heard surf. The others, however, had failed to hear anything except the dismal tooting of the fog-horns, one somewhere within a few miles, as it seemed, and one far off in the distance. They were, in short, three very damp, chilly and depressed persons, and didn’t care who knew it.
Arnold broke the silence that ensued after he had turned the handle of the horn for the fiftieth time. (He declared that it was just a waste of labor to bother with the old thing, but Toby insisted.) “If the tide is high at ten,” he said, “and we don’t hit land before that, what’ll happen then?”
“We’re pretty likely to start back again,” said Toby listlessly. “If only the fog would lift——”
“I wouldn’t mind a bit if only I wasn’t so cold,” said Phebe, with an attempt at cheerfulness. They had abandoned the tiller long ago, and all three were huddled on the floor of the cockpit as close together as they could get. “Wouldn’t it be beautiful if we could have a fire?”
“I’ve got plenty of matches,” said Arnold. “We might cut down the mast and burn it,” he added with an effort at humor. “Only I dare say it would be too damp. That’s another thing I’m going to have on board after this.”
“What?” asked Toby.
“Well, either steam heat or open fireplaces. If we only had a radiator back of us now——”