Morning, noon
Two shy , pretty , little women they proved , who thanked Jake with smiles and profuse bows , much to that old rascal 's confusion . They were all bustle and work . They had the boards down from the windows and had the doors and windows wide open five minutes after they got ashore . Morning , noon and night , they were scrubbing , washing , beating , dusting , polishing and airing , until I was more inquisitive than an old maid 's cat to view the results of their labours . But my sense of propriety overcame my curiosity , and , for the time being , I remained in ignorance . One night , after the little workers had gone back to Vancouver , I was lying in my bed enjoying Robert Louis Stevenson 's `` Virginibus Puerisque , '' when I fancied I heard the throbbing of a gasoline launch . I rose and looked out at the open window ; but it was one of those inky-black nights , without either moon or stars , a night when even the sea became invisible , -- so I saw nothing .