But neither of the boys stirred. Outside the glow of the fire the blackness looked terrible. Pete nuzzled up to Philip's side, and, being untroubled by imaginative fears, soon began to feel drowsy. The sound of his measured breathing startled Philip with the terror of loneliness.
“Honour bright, Mr. Pete,” he faltered, nudging the head on his shoulder, and trying to keep his voice from shaking; “you call yourself a second mate, and leaving all the work to me!”
The second mate was penitent, but in less than half a minute more he was committing the same offence again. “It isn't no use,” he said, “I'm that sleepy you never seen.”
“Then let's both take the watch below i'stead,” said Philip, and they proceeded to stretch themselves out by the fire together.
“Just lave it to me,” said Pete; “I'll hear them if they come in the night. I'll always does. I'm sleeping that light it's shocking. Why, sometimes I hear Black Tom when he comes home tipsy. I've done it times.”
“We'll have carpets to lie on to-morrow, not stones,” said Philip, wriggling on a rough one; “rolls of carpets—kidaminstrel ones.”
They settled themselves side by side as close to each other as they could creep, and tried not to hear the surging and sighing of the sea. Then came a tremulous whimper:
“Pete!”
“What's that?”
“Don't you never say your prayers when you take the watch below?”