"Nabbed!" gasps Rupert, starin' over the rail, at a gray gunboat that's just roundin' in towards us. It's the Petrel, sure enough.
"The idea!" says Auntie. "They were shooting at us, too, weren't they? Of all things!"
Then up pads Old Hickory in a low-necked silk dressin'-gown, with his gray hair all rumpled and a heavy crop of white stubble on his solid set jaws.
"Huh!" says he, takin' a glance at the Petrel.
That's about all there is to be said, too. For it was odd how little any of us felt like bein' chatty. We just stood around quiet and watched the businesslike motions on the Petrel as she stops about a block off and proceeds to drop a boat into the water.
Projectin' prominent from one of her steel bay windows is a wicked-lookin' gun about the size of a young water main, and behind it a lot of jackies squintin' at us earnest. And you know how still it seems on a boat when the engines quit. I almost jumps when someone whispers in my ear. It's Vee.
"Now I hope Auntie's satisfied," says she.
"There's no tellin' about her," says I.
Anyway, she wasn't fannin' herself, or sniffin' smellin' salts. I'd noticed her hail a deck steward, and the next I knew she was spoonin' away at half a grapefruit, as calm as you please. Mr. Ellins is indulgin' in a dry smoke. Only Mrs. Mumford, when she finally appears, does justice to the situation. She rolls her eyes, breathes hard, and clutches her crochet bag desperate.
The Petrel people were takin' their time about things. After they got the boat in they had to let down some side stairs, and then the sailors waited with their oars ready until an officer in a fresh laundered white uniform gets in and gives the signal to shove off. Our Captain has the companionway stairs rigged, too, and there ain't a word passed until the naval gent comes aboard. He's rather a youngish party, with a round, good-natured face, and he seems kind of amused as he sizes up our bunch in their early mornin' costumes.