"Huh, I found one that wasn't inoffensive by a long shot! Someone will have to get some eggs tomorrow, for there are only eight left."
"What!" Han viewed Perry in disgust. "Mean to say you went and used them all up making those silly omelets?"
"I notice you ate the silly omelets," said Ossie. "One egg apiece is enough for breakfast, isn't it?"
"Not for me. The doctor ordered two every morning. If I don't have two eggs for breakfast I shall mutiny."
"If you do you'll be put in irons," said Joe. "Or swung from the yard-arm. Say, how long before we're going to have something to eat, Ossie? I'm hungry. That egg thing sort of whetted my appetite."
"Gosh, you fellows would keep me cooking all the time," grumbled the steward. "It's only five, and we don't have supper until six. So you can plaguey well starve for an hour."
"Then I shall go to sleep and—um—forget the pangs of hunger. Move your big feet out of the way, Phil."
"I like your cheek, you duffer! Go on back to your own bunk."
"Too faint for want of food," murmured Joe, stretching himself out in spite of Phil's protests. "Someone sing to me, please."
Supper went very well, in spite of the mid-afternoon luncheon, and after that the riding light was set for the night, the hatches drawn shut and all hands settled down to pass the evening in whatever way seemed best. But bedtime came early tonight and, by half-past nine, with the sound of a distant siren coming to them at intervals and the yacht's bells chiming the hours and half-hours, all lights were out below and the Adventurer was wrapped in fog and silence.