Noonan said no more; and when the _Hudson_ had tied up, he went ashore
with a non-committal, “Well, s’long Dan” that expressed nothing but
reserve. Keighley saw him go, and returned, relieved, to the work of
having the _Hudson_ made ready for her next run.
“They’re keepin’ us busy,” he said to Moore.
“They” were. In the space of three days, the boat had done duty at
three fires; and the fire on the _Sachsen_, of the previous week, had
been enough in itself to make the summer one that would be easily
remembered. But now, as if to give the men a taste of both sorts of
life in the department, the days that followed settled down into the
dullest routine of barrack room inactivity. The jigger rang and rang
again, but it never rang any of the lucky numbers that would give the
_Hudson_ exercise. “Nuthin’ but blanks,” “Shine” complained. “This’s
worse ’n playin’ ‘policy.’ Gee, I wish we’d draw a number with a fire
on it.”
The engineer had work to do, fitting a sort of drain to carry off the
water that condensed in the low-pressure cylinder. Keighley was kept
interested by the rumors of bad blood between the Fire Commissioner and
“the Boss”--or the Boss’s creature, the Little Mayor. But the men had
nothing but the shining of brasses and the washing of hose to occupy
their few working moments, and nothing but the exhausted interest of
newspapers and dominoes to pass their long idle hours. They did not
lend any but a languid ear to the reports of the department intrigues,
now that Keighley had fought the “Jiggers” to a standstill. They had
decided to let that matter rest until their superiors took it up again.
And then, one warm morning, when “Shine” and Sturton were sitting on
the deck of the _Hudson_, in the shade of the wheelhouse--eating apples
which they had picked out of the scum of chips and driftwood under the
boat’s quarter--something happened that proved, in its final issue, to
have a vital influence in ending the whole “Jigger” trouble, so far as
the _Hudson_ and its crew were concerned, although the actual incident
itself involved only “Shine.”
He had been complaining of the life they had been leading. “I’m sick
o’ this. Sick o’ the whole rotten bus’ness. Sick o’ doin’ time in this
dang pen, like a convic’.”
The boat was as hot as an ironclad, with her metal fittings and cement
deck; but if “Shine” and Sturton went into the pierhouse with their
fruit, they would have to divide it with the other members of the crew;
and they had elected to endure the heat rather than lose the apples.
“Turk” knuckled the end of his crooked nose, turned over his apple with
deliberation, and crunched off a fresh bite. “Whasmatterith it?” he
asked thickly.
“It’s rotten!” “Shine” growled. “_Rotten!_ That’s what’s the matter
with it. It’s too much scrubbin’ brasses--an’ stan’in’ watches--an’
playin’ footy dominoes--an’ havin’ nuthin’ to do.”
“It’s better ’n truckin’,” Sturton said--remembering the laborious
days he had spent hooking packing-cases and hoisting bales. “It’s the
easiest money _I_ ever made.”
[Illustration: “_Over yuh go now!_”