Joe's thoughts probably might have been put into words thus: "Yes, I see you doing it, but--but _why ?_" Steve didn't go down to the cabin for dinner, but ate it as best he could on the bridge.

Neil, in his capacity of cabin-boy, arranged a folding stool beside him, and from that, at intervals between moving the wheel, blowing the whistle or anxiously scanning the course, Steve seized his food.

The others descended to the main cabin and squeezed themselves about the table, which, adorned with a cloth of wonderful sheen and whiteness that bore the cruiser's former name and flag woven in the centre, held a plentiful supply of canned beans, fried bacon, potato chips, bread and butter and raspberry jam.

Everything was thrillingly fine, from the pure linen tablecloth and napkins to the silverware.

The plates held the same design that was worked into the napery, as did even the knives and forks and spoons.