Secrets at Sea by Richard Peck Read Free Book Online

the very feet of all these hulking humans, ganged together with them within these metal walls. Honestly.
    â€œThere’s a ship’s cat,” Nigel said in a hollow voice. “There always is.”
    We quaked. He had us in the palm of his hand.
    Lamont ducked. We looked around the gentlemen’s smoking room to see if a cat’s eyes glowed from under the furniture, behind the damask drapes. You know cats’ eyes—that sickening yellow. Louise squeaked.
    â€œOh, not now,” Nigel said. “Not ’ ere . ’E’ll not give you any grief whilst I’m about.” Beatrice looked up at Nigel, rapt. “ ’E won’t tangle with me, the ship’s cat won’t. We’ve tangled before, and I closed one of ’is eyes, permanently. ’E gives me a wide berth. Still, when you’re on your own, be on your guard. ’E’s kill-crazy.”
    â€œCats are,” I remarked. Lamont turned in a perfect circle, looking in every shadow for a kill-crazy, one-eyed cat.
    But now, warmed and warned, we continued our journey along the endless corridors.
    Miles we went down the creaking ship, from one deck to another, following Nigel’s tall tail. Now we crept past the slick tiles of the Turkish bath. Very dank with clouds of steam. It was a whole world, this ship, and now we were in its very bowels. Surely we were below water level now, though that didn’t bear thinking about.
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    THERE CAME THE worrisome smell of English cooking. We were this close to the doors of the kitchen—the galley—when they banged open. A line of enormous humans burst through and bore down on us. We skittered on the steel deck. Huge waiters in white coats carried trays of the dessert course, shoulder-high. Flaming puddings. I gave us up for dead. We’d been seen, and you dare never be.
    The waiters clattered past us on their ringing heels. We were bunched beside the doors, trying not to gibber. Louise whimpered.
    â€œWe’re doomed,” I said. “They saw us. They certainly saw you, Nigel. You very nearly glow in the dark.”
    â€œHe does,” Beatrice breathed.
    â€œ ’Course they saw me.” Nigel stroked a gorgeous whisker. “But I ’ave me work to do, and they’ave theirs.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œBesides, at sea a steward outranks a waiter.”
    We gaped. “But you’re a mouse. ” I was practically wringing my hands.
    Nigel waved me away. “You’re on British soil now, so to speak,” he said. “Rank matters more than appearance.”
    We didn’t know what to think, and the galley doors were still swinging. “Dinner is served,” Nigel said. “Step this way, ladies, Lamont.”
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    I MAY HAVE pictured us foraging for crumbs under the ship’s stove for our dinner. How wrong I was.
    The vast kitchens were a clashing of pans and far too many humans. We skirted it, moving through pantries to a storage room right at the end of the known world. We drew up by a tall pile of crated fruit. There in the shadows another shadow fell across us.
    A mouse stood there: tall, gray, gaunt, very upright. Lamont ducked. This mouse before us carried a small towel, hemstitched, over one arm. At his neck was a neatly tied black bow tie. He and Nigel traded glances.
    â€œHow many?” The mouse looked far down his long nose at us.
    â€œFour more for dinner, Cecil,” Nigel said.
    Four more?
    â€œI suppose it might be managed,” the gray mouse—Cecil—said.
    â€œAt the ’ead table, Cecil, if you please,” said Nigel.
    The head table?
    Cecil looked even farther down his nose. His gaze just grazed us.
    How shy we felt. Lamont crouched low.
    â€œPerhaps it could be arranged,” Cecil said. And with a twitch of whisker and a nod of head, he led us around the crate.
    On the far side we got the surprise of our lives. There sat easily a hundred and fifty mice, at