High up
a wave climbed the _Fledgling_, and as she paused on the top for a
downward glide, Dan hastily opened the door and clambered down the iron
ladder.
"Well, Sam, how are they working?" he shouted to Crampton, the chief,
bending over a fizzing valve bonnet.
Sam rose, pushed back his oily peaked cap until the straight raven hair
flowed out from under like a cataract, and gave his thin, waterfall
moustache a twist, while his swarthy, parchment face cracked into a
hundred smiles.
"Workin'," he said, "as sweet as a babe breathin'."
Up reared the stern, lifting the propeller clear of the water. The
engines expending their force in air, raced free. The clatter was
infernal; the pistons seemed trying to jump out of the cylinders, while
the throws and eccentrics lost all semblance of good order.
"Oh, damn!" cried Sam, who, being hurled to the iron floor, swore as
though he enjoyed it.
Whitey Welch, the fireman, burst into a huge guffaw, in which Sam
finally joined.
"You're all right down here," laughed Dan, "as happy as a sewing
circle! There may be some pulling to do later."
"You get something to pull; we'll tend to the rest," and Sam Crampton
grinned.
Emerging on deck, Dan collided with Pete Noonan, the deck-hand, with
shoulders as big as Dan's and a bigger chest.
Pages:
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50