“Oh, yes they will,” said the skipper. “Dibbs is going to see to that. I don’t want any chance of the race being scratched. Turn me out in a couple of hours.”
He closed the door behind him, and the mate, having stuffed his clay with the coarse tobacco, took some pink note-paper with scalloped edges from his drawer, and, placing the paper at his right side, and squaring his shoulders, began some private correspondence.
For some time he smoked and wrote in silence, until the increasing darkness warned him to finish his task. He signed the note, and, having put a few marks of a tender nature below his signature, sealed it ready for the post, and sat with half-closed eyes, finishing his pipe. Then his head nodded, and, placing his arms on the table, he too slept.
It seemed but a minute since he had closed his eyes when he was awakened by the entrance of the skipper, who came blundering into the darkness from his stateroom, vociferating loudly and nervously.
“Ay, ay!” said Joe, starting up.
“Where’s the lights?” said the skipper. “What’s the time? I dreamt I’d overslept myself. What’s the time?”
“Plenty o’ time,” said the mate vaguely, as he stifled a yawn.
“Ha’-past ten,” said the skipper, as he struck a match, “You’ve been asleep,” he added severely.
“I ain’t,” said the mate stoutly, as he followed the other on deck. “I’ve been thinking. I think better in the dark.”
“It’s about time our chaps was aboard,” said the skipper, as he looked round the deserted deck. “I hope they won’t be late.”