Roy had a look, and:

“It’s Harry!” he exclaimed, in surprise.

“Well, what of it?” asked Chub, defiantly.

“Oh, nothing,” murmured Roy.

“Oh, nothing,” echoed Dick, softly, and, joining arms, they marched twice around the deck in the moonlight, whistling Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” badly out of tune, and grinning like a couple of Jack-o’-lanterns when they passed the window. Chub, frowning and muttering, stowed the photograph at the bottom of his suit-case.