Abe sat up, rubbing his eyes, wondering since when they had begun to
serve oyster-stew for breakfast on the Beach; then he realized that he
had not overslept, and that it was not morning.

The clock was striking twelve, the midnight patrol was just going out,
and the returning "runners" were bidding him partake of the food they
had just prepared to cheer them after their cold tramp along the surf.

The old man whiffed the smell of the coffee, tempted, yet withheld by
the thought of Angy's horror, and the horror of the twenty-nine sisters.

"Cap'n Abe"--Clarence Havens, No. 5, with a big iron spoon in his hand
and a blue gingham apron tied around his bronzed neck, put him on his
mettle, however--"Cap'n Abe, I tell yew, we wouldn't have waked no other
fellow of your age out of a sound sleep. Cap'n Darby, he could snooze
till doomsday; but we knowed you wouldn't want to miss no fun a-going."

"Cap'n Sam'l does show his years," Abe admitted. "Much obliged fer yew
a-wakin' me up, boys," as he drew on his boots. "I was dreamin' I was
hungry. Law, I wish I had a dollar apiece fer all the eyester-stews I've
et on this here table 'twixt sunset an' sunrise."

Under the stimulus of the unaccustomed repast, Abe expanded and began to
tell yarns of the old days on the Beach--the good old days. His cheeks
grew red, his eyes sparkled. He smoked and leaned back from the table,
and ate and drank, smoked and ate again.

"A week amongst yew boys," he asserted gaily, "is a-goin' tew be the
makin' of me. Haow Sam'l kin waste so much time in sleep, I can't
understand."