But, notwithstanding all these lights on deck, there were none visible through the cabin ports.
"I wonder if Mr. Pardo has got here?" said Matt.
"What's the odds, Matt?" returned McGlory. "It's eight-thirty, and we're due."
They got aboard, gaining the after deck. The elevated white light cast a dim glow over polished mahogany and glittering brasswork, and Matt bent down to examine the bulkhead controls. A door opened in the bulkhead, on the right of the steering wheel, and a man showed shadowily in the dark.
"Is that Motor Matt?" he called.
"Yes," was the reply.
The man clambered up two or three steps, knocking his shins and swearing because of the darkness.
"You're expected," said he. "Go down into the saloon—a stateroom is the first thing you come to, and the saloon is beyond that."
"Why don't you light up?" asked Matt.
"Mr. Pardo has a headache, and the light bothers him. Go on down—he's waiting for you."