In Which We Are Castaways

The rain came down dismally, and the chill of the night was very
considerable, as I learned soon after ceasing my own exertions. The
men made some sort of shelter for themselves by turning up the long
boat and the dingey on edge, crawling into the lee, and thus finding a
little protection. All but John, my cook. That calm personage, every
time I turned, was at my elbow in the dark, standing silent, waiting
for I knew not what. For the first time, I realized the virtue of his
waterproof silk shirt. He seemed not to mind the rain, although he
asked my consent to put his bundle and his book under the shelter. I
stooped down at the firelight, curious to see the title of his book.
It was familiar--The Pirate's Own Book!

"Where you catchee book, John?" I asked him.

"Litlee boy he give me; him 'Melican book. I lead him some. Plenty
good book."

"Yes," said I; "I see. That boy'll make pirates of us all, if we
aren't careful."

"That book, him tellee what do, sposee bad storm," said John proudly.
"I know."

I walked over to where Peterson lay, his pipe now lighted by some
magic all his own. We now could see more plainly the furred and yellow
gleam of the lighthouse lamp. Peterson's concern, however, was all for
the Belle Helène.

"I hate to think of her out there all by herself," said he.

"So do I, Peterson. I hate also to think of all that ninety-three we
left out there."