Naturally the Skipping Goone didn’t possess a lounge in any true ocean liner sense. But there was a rough space aft, out of which improvised sleeping quarters opened; and into this cabin, forlorn enough in itself, and lighted only by a couple of very smoky lamps, had been introduced certain truly voluptuous notes. There were benches with bright red cushions, and—yes, there actually was a piano. It seemed a wonderful thing indeed, coming upon a piano in such a dismal coop of a place. But there it was—a perky, cheap little upright, not quite full grown and apparently lined with tin. It was shabby and perky at the same time; Mr. Curry had purchased it at second hand, and it looked as though it had passed through rather a good many hands even before it reached the dealer at all. But it was still indomitable, and possessed a red felt scarf with an amazing border of yellow and green stitching. As for the “soft” pedal, it no longer worked; but the “loud” pedal was perfectly intact—and that, as the impresario joyously pointed out to Miss Valentine, was “just fifty per cent. better than no pedal of any description.”  
Round the piano they gathered after dinner and made as much merry noise as they could in an effort to keep their spirits from sagging. It was a very different picture from that framed by the tiny lone cabin where Captain Bearman, surrounded by august nautical implements and with the impressive book of the log spread open before him, sat busy with his finger nails, gnawing them in sullen solitude. The perky piano dominated another scene altogether. Mr. Curry himself sat at the piano, pounding with incorrigible cheerfulness. The drummer from Kentucky had brought out his queer little old snare drum for the occasion—no room, alas, for the kinglier kettles here! And the temperamental violinist from Vienna vigorously added his best technique to swell the melodic pleasures of the convivial hour.
 
The family of songbirds pressed close about them, bawling old comic songs and parodies at the top of their lungs,[83] laughing with many symptoms of hysteria, and having the gayest sort of time imaginable. Yes, gayety was the rule and goal of the hour; and if any one, in a moment of unfortunate abstraction, had struck up Home Sweet Home or Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep there would have been a riot indeed. The offender would have been put right off the ship.
 
It was a glorious night—sheer and immortal—this first night at sea. All about spread darkness and lonely ocean, with stars burning dimly overhead. The stars looked down through empyreans of silence and saw the Skipping Goone nosing along under full sail with her romantic miscellany of merchandise and songbirds, dogged and unafraid, conquering through plain cheek. In the cabin with the smoky lamps the impresario and............