They stayed aboard all that day, for the fog held tight, and, if Steve’s calculations were right, the Adventurer lay well down toward the entrance to the harbour and the nearest settlement was a good mile and three-quarters away.  None of the seven felt sufficiently ambitious to put out for shore in that smother of mist.  They managed to pass the time without much trouble, however.  There was always the graphophone, although they were destined to become rather tired of the records, and Steve, Joe, Han and Neil played whist most of the afternoon.  Phil curled up on a couch and read, and Ossie and Perry, after having a violent argument over the proper way to make an omelet decided to settle the question then and there.  By the time the two omelets were prepared the whist players were ready to stop and the entire ship’s company partook of the rival concoctions and decided the matter in favour of Ossie.

“Although,” explained Joe, “I’m not saying that Perry’s omelet is bad.  If he had remembered to put a little salt in it—­”

“I did!” declared Perry resentfully.  “You don’t know a decent omelet when you see it.  Look how light mine was!  Why, it was twice as high as Ossie’s!”

“That’s just it,” said Steve gravely.  “It was so light that it sort of faded away before you could taste it.  An omelet, Perry, should be substantial and filling.”

“That shows how much you know about it,” jeered Perry.  “There were just as many eggs in mine as there were in his.  Only I made mine with water and beat the eggs separately—­”

“Ah, there it is, you see,” drawled Joe.  “You beat the poor little eggs.  I’m surprised at you, Perry.  Any fellow who will beat an inoffensive egg—­”

“Huh, I found one that wasn’t inoffensive by a long shot!  Someone will have to get some eggs tomorrow, for there are only eight left.”

“What!” Han viewed Perry in disgust.  “Mean to say you went and used them all up making those silly omelets?”

“I notice you ate the silly omelets,” said Ossie.  “One egg apiece is enough for breakfast, isn’t it?”

“Not for me.  The doctor ordered two every morning.  If I don’t have two eggs for breakfast I shall mutiny.”

“If you do you’ll be put in irons,” said Joe.  “Or swung from the yard-arm.  Say, how long before we’re going to have something to eat, Ossie?  I’m hungry.  That egg thing sort of whetted my appetite.”

“Gosh, you fellows would keep me cooking all the time,” grumbled the steward.  “It’s only five, and we don’t have supper until six.  So you can plaguey well starve for an hour.”

“Then I shall go to sleep and—­um—­forget the pangs of hunger.  Move your big feet out of the way, Phil.”

“I like your cheek, you duffer!  Go on back to your own bunk.”

“Too faint for want of food,” murmured Joe, stretching himself out in spite of Phil’s protests.  “Someone sing to me, please.”