were to share together. Latham looked about the narrow quarters dubiously.
"No, we haven't half our dogs yet," he reminded grimly.
Geoff went out while his friend changed his clothes. The transformation from the club life on the yacht to the cramped, ill-lit quarters, discomfort and necessity for doing for yourself whatever was done, had been sharp and sudden. Geoff met his sister in the companionway. She was dressed in sweater, trousers and slicker; her hair had disappeared under an oilskin cap. She smiled at him.
"It's getting nice and nasty on deck," she suggested. "Let's go up."
She looked surprisingly small in the man's outfit, and delicate and nervy. Geoff seized her impulsively and stooped and kissed her.
"'Scuse me," he apologised. "Won't do it again. Forgot myself; but—you're all right."
She flushed red with pleasure and went up with him to the deck. The wind was blowing up from the north, and a cold, sloppy rain was falling. The sea was rising with great, heavy swells. Jerry McNeal, in his oilskins, was
