No sooner were they recognized than the yawl was launched and sent ashore. They came aboard and descended quickly out of the rain into the only room (or cabin) at the foot of the companionway. This was at once their sitting-room, dining-room, bedroom, and every other chamber for the voyage. Here they stowed their satchels and papers in lockers beneath their individual sleeping berths. Each one sought out a stout canvas clothes bag, which all pilots use in lieu of a trunk, and began to unpack his ship’s clothes. All took off their land apparel and dressed themselves in ancient seat-patched and knee-worn garments, which were far more comfortable than graceful, and every one produced the sailor’s essential, a pipe and tobacco.
Dreary as was the day overhead, the atmosphere of the cabin changed with their arrival. Not only was it soon thick with the fumes of many pipes, but it was bright with genial temper. Not one of the company of seven pilots seemed moody.
“Whose watch is it?” asked one.
“Rierson’s, I think,” was the answer.
“He ain’t here yet.”
“Here he comes now.”
At this a hale Norwegian, clean and hard as a pine knot, came down the companionway.
“My turn to-day, eh? Are we all here?”
“Ay!” cried one.
“Then we might as well go, hey?”