The sky was inky black; not a star flickered in
the vault above. There were low, far off mutterings of thunder.
The rail lanterns,--few and far between,--threw their pallid beams
down into the rippling basin in a sickly effort to penetrate the
gloom.
Captain Trigger and Mr. Mott, smoking their pipes on the makeshift
bridge, studied the throng of women in dour silence.
"I understand the farmers are praying for rain," remarked Mr. Mott,
sniffing the air with considerable satisfaction.
"It would do no end of good," said Captain Trigger, without taking
his eyes from the chattering mass below.
Mr. Codge, the purser, joined them.
"What are they waiting for?" he asked. "Why don't they call the
meeting to order?"
"They did that half an hour ago," said Mr. Mott. "Good Lord, man,
can't you hear them talking? Have you no ears at all?"
"But they're all talking at once."
"And why shouldn't they?" demanded the First Officer. "It's their
meeting, isn't it?"
"I met Miss Clinton as I was coming up. She was going to her room.
I asked her how the meeting was getting along. I don't believe she
understood me, because all she said was 'good-night.'"
"I guess she understood you, all right," said Mr.
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