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.  Ossie was apologetic as to the menu, although he need not have been.

“There wasn’t time to do much cooking,” he said, “and, besides, I haven’t got the hang of things yet.  I never tried to do anything on an alcohol stove before.  It takes longer, seems to me.  I couldn’t get the oven heated until about five minutes ago, and so if those potato-chips aren’t very warm—­”

“I’m warm enough, if they aren’t,” said Neil.  “How do you open these little round window things?”

“Turn the thumb-screws,” advised Han.  “I think everything’s bully, and I’m as hungry as a bear.  Pass the beans, Perry.  Got any more tea out there, cook?”

“Yes, but I’m steward and not cook,” replied Ossie, arising from his camp-stool and stepping into the galley.  “Hand over the bread plate, someone, and I’ll cut some more.  Bet you it’s going to cost us something for grub, fellows!”

“Well,” responded Han, “I’d rather go broke that way than some others.  What kind of tea is this, Ossie?”

“Ceylon.  Doesn’t it suit you?”

“Oh, I can worry it down, thanks.  Sugar, please, Phil.  I generally drink orange pekoe, though.  You might lay in a few pounds of it at the next stop.”

“I might,” said Ossie, resuming his place at the end of the board, “and then again I might not.  And the probabilities are not.  If you don’t want all the potatoes, Joe, you may shove them along this way.”

The repast was frequently interrupted by the shrill blast of the whistle, and whenever that sounded most of the diners scrambled up to peer interestedly through the ports.  In fact, so loth were they to miss anything that might be happening that they finished dinner in record time, consuming dessert, which consisted of bananas and pears, outside.  Ossie alone remained below, and from the galley came the clatter of dishes and a cheerful tune as the steward cleared away and washed up.  Joe smiled at Phil.

“Ossie’s having the time of his life now,” he said, “but wait until the novelty wears off.  Then we’ll hear some tall kicking about the dishwashing, or I miss my guess.”

“We’ll have to take turns helping him at that,” said Steve.  “If we don’t he’s likely to mutiny.  There’s Coney over there, fellows.”