Philip had his doubts about the boys, but he would not quarrel. It was nearly dark, and growing very cold. The lads croodled down by the crackling blaze, and tried to forget that they had forgotten tea-time. “We never has to mind a bit of hungry,” said Philip stoutly. “Never a ha'p'orth,” said Pete. “Only when the job's done we have hams and flitches and things for supper.” “Aw, yes, ateing and drinking to the full.” “Rum, Pete, we always drinks rum.” “We has to,” said Pete. “None of your tea,” said Philip. “Coorse not, none of your ould grannie's two-penny tay,” said Pete. It was quite dark by this time, and the tide was rising rapidly. There was not a star in the sky, and not a light on the sea except the revolving light of the lightship far a Way. The boys crept closer together and began to think of home. Philip remembered Aunty Nan. When he had stolen away on hands and knees under the parlour window she had been sewing at his new check night-shirt. A night-shirt for a Carrasdhoo man had seemed to be ridiculous then; but where was Aunty Nannie now? Pete remembered his mother--she would be racing round the houses and crying; and he had visions of Black Tom--he would be racing round also and swearing. “Shouldn't we sing something, Phil?” said Pete, with a gurgle in his throat. “Sing!” said Philip, with as much scorn as he could summon, “and give them warning we're watching for them! Well, you _are_ a pretty, Mr. Pete! But just you wait till the ships goes wrecking on the rocks--I mean the reefs--and the dead men's coming up like corks--hundreds and ninety and dozens of them; my jove! yes, then you'll hear me singing.” The darkness deepened, and the voice of the sea began to moan through the back of the cave, the gorse crackled no longer, and the turf burned in a dull red glow. Night with its awfulness had come down, and the boys were cut off from everything. “They don't seem to be coming--not yet,” said Philip, in a husky whisper. “Maybe it's the same as fishing,” said Pete; “sometimes you catch and sometimes you don't.” “That's it,” said Philip eagerly, “generally you don't--and then you both haves to go home and come again,” he added nervously. But neither of the boys stirred. Outside the glow of the fire the blackness looked terrible. Pete nuzzled up to Philip's side, and, being untroubled by imaginative fears, soon began to feel drowsy. The sound of his measured breathing startled Philip with the terror of loneliness. “Honour bright, Mr. Pete,” he faltered, nudging the head on his shoulder, and trying to keep his voice from shaking; “_you_ call yourself a second mate, and leaving all the work to me!” The second mate was penitent, but in less than half a minute more he was committing the same offence again. “It isn't no use,” he said, “I'm that sleepy you never seen.” “Then let's both take the watch below i'stead,” said Philip, and they proceeded to stretch themselves out by the fire together.