"I believe you would sing at your own
funeral!" And Tom continued gayly:
"Sailing, sailing, over the bounding main,
For many a stormy wind shall blow,
Ere the Rovers get home again!"
"Tom lives on songs," said Sam slyly. "He'd rather sing than eat a pie."
"Pie!" thundered Tom tragically. "Who said pie? I haven't seen a
home-made pie since--since--"
"The time you went down in the pantry at midnight and ate two,"
finished Dick, and then there was a burst of laughter.
"Never mind, Tom, I'll make you half a dozen pies--when we get home,"
came from Nellie.
"Will you really?" said Tom, and then he began once more, as gayly
as ever:
"You can give me pudding
And give me cake,
And anything else
You care to bake;
But if you wish
To charm my eye,
Just hand me over
Some home-made pie!"
"That's all right," said Dick. "But in place of eye you should have
said stomach."
"Stomach doesn't rhyme with pie," snorted 'Tom. "I'm a true poet and
I know what I am doing."
"Talking about pie makes me think of pie-plates," said Sam. "Let us
play spinning the plate on deck. It will be lots of fun trying to
catch the plate while it is spinning and the steamer is rolling."
"Good!" cried Grace, and ran to get a plate from the cook's galley.
Soon they were playing merrily, and the game served to make an hour
pass pleasantly. When the forfeits had to be redeemed, the girls made
the boys do several ridiculous things.
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