"Steady as a rock. Here, wedge this tray in somewhere, and I'll bring out the coffee. We must rough it a bit when we are having meals under way."
In spite of the pitching of the yacht both members of the crew did full justice to the meal. This over, Jack resumed his place at the helm, and Gerald proceeded to his task of "washing up."
The young sub-lieutenant could not help laughing at the ludicrousness of his position. Here was he--an officer of H.M. Navy--cooped up in a most uncomfortable posture in a cramped fo'c'sle, and undertaking a task that he had never before performed. How his brother-officers would roar with amusement could they but see him. Yet he had to confess that the novelty of the whole thing was delightful.
"What about a wash?" he asked, some time later.
"You'll have to whistle for one," replied Jack. "At least, till we reach port. Fresh water's precious at the present time. I'll tell you what--we'll have a bathe over the side."
Gerald looked at the wake of the little craft. The _Playmate_ was bowling along at a bare three knots, and having passed the disturbed waters of the race was now sailing more steadily in the gentle, regular heave of the open Channel.
"No; one at a time. Keep her as she is." Jack quickly divested himself of his clothing, and, grasping the bight of the slackened-off main-sheet, he lowered himself into the sea. There he hung, towed through the waves, with a miniature cascade pouring over his head, till, having had enough, he dexterously regained the yacht.
"Capital!" he exclaimed, shaking the dripping water from his face. "But it's much colder than one would expect for the time of year."
"Deep water always is," replied Gerald, as he prepared to follow his companion's example.
"Are you going to get the dinghy aboard?" he asked, after the ablutionary exercises had been completed. "She's a bit of a drag astern, I fancy."
"No; let her stop. I'm going to turn in now. If it comes on to blow--I don't think it will--give me a shout, and we'll soon whip the dinghy aboard and lash her down securely. In any case turn me out at eight bells."
Gerald thereupon took charge of the helm. The _Playmate_ had already reeled off more than thirty miles of her cross-Channel passage. But though the atmosphere astern was perfectly clear, ahead the horizon was obscured by a haze that blended sea and sky together in an indistinct blurr. The wind, too, was slowly yet gradually dying away, and the yacht was doing little more than two knots.