There seemed small chance that his opportunity would come while the
_Lycoming_ was in port, however, for the great ship lay peacefully
in her dock, day after day, while the process of loading her went on
apace. There was almost nothing for Roy to do. Though he had seen
a great deal on the day of his arrival, there still remained many
points of interest that he wished to visit. But before doing any more
sightseeing, Roy determined to familiarize himself with the _Lycoming_.
He was working for more than amusement. A chance might come, even
though he had nothing whatever to do with navigating the ship, when a
thorough knowledge of the vessel might be of great use. So he decided
to stick to the ship for a time.
Roy was now in position to learn with ease whatever he wished to know
about the _Lycoming_. He felt sure that both Mr. Young, the first
mate, and the chief engineer, Mr. Anderson, had taken a fancy to him.
As for the purser, Mr. Robbins, Roy knew well enough that the latter
was his firm friend. Sam, the steward, had looked after Roy with that
genuine solicitude that only an old southern darky can display, and Roy
had already grown fond of the white-headed negro. He knew that these
men would gladly show him any parts of the ship he wished to see.
Immediately after breakfast on the morning after their arrival, Roy
slipped down to the purser’s office. He intended merely to ask what
was the most interesting thing to see on shipboard. But when he beheld
the purser sweating at his desk, with a mountainous pile of bills,
receipts, and other memoranda stacked around him, Roy immediately made
up his mind what he was going to do.
“See here,” said Roy. “Isn’t there something I can do to help you? I
can add pretty well and write a plain hand, and I’m looking for a job.”
The purser looked at him quizzically. “Tired of sightseeing already?”
he asked.
“Not a bit of it,” said Roy. “I’m going to see everything in this town
that’s worth seeing. But you’re loaded down with work. I can see that.
And if there’s anything I can do to help you, I want to do it. The
sightseeing can wait. What shall I do?”
“If you really mean it,” said the purser, “you can help me an awful
lot. Just read these memoranda to me while I check the entries in my
books.”
All that morning Roy and the purser worked in the latter’s office. Roy
read memoranda, added figures, copied accounts, and did other tasks as
directed. For a while Mr. Robbins checked up Roy’s work; but he soon
found that Roy was careful and made no mistakes. When noon came the
purser threw down his pen with a sigh of relief.
“Lad,” he said, “it would have taken me two days to do alone what the
two of us have accomplished this morning. This just about clears up
my work at this end of the trip. I can’t tell you how I hate all this
business of accounts or how much obliged I am to you. I don’t know how
to thank you.”
“Pshaw!” protested Roy. “I haven’t done anything. I ought to thank you
for teaching me something about a purser’s work. I want to know all
about steamships, now that I’m going to live on one.”
“Good boy,” cried the purser. “I thought I wasn’t mistaken in you.
I’ll back you to succeed, Roy.”
“I’ll need a whole lot of backing,” laughed Roy, “if I am ever to get
anywhere with Captain Lansford. He sure has it in for me.”
“Just forget about him and keep on plugging,” said the purser. “You’ll
swear by him when you know him better.”
Roy made a wry face.
“Come on, lad,” suggested the purser, pulling on his coat. “No old
ship’s grub for us to-day. We’ll have a bite of real southern cooking.”
He hooked his arm in Roy’s and they hustled up the gangplank and down
the wharf toward a near-by restaurant, where they had chicken gumbo
soup, fried chicken, hot corn bread, Mexican coffee, so strong it
almost made Roy sick, and a number of other dishes that were strange
and wonderful to Roy.
The purser was feeling very complacent by the time they returned to the
ship.
“What do we do next?” asked Roy. “I’m eager to learn some more about a
purser’s work.”
“We’re going to tackle a little job that is always part of this
purser’s business when he is in Galveston, and that will be as
interesting to you, I suspect, as it is new.”
He leaned forward and punched the call bell. In a few moments Sam, the
steward, appeared.
“What can I do for yuh, Mistah Robbins, suh?” he inquired, bowing and
smiling.
“You know that little job I always do down here with a pound of white
meat, Sam?”
“’Deed I does, suh,” chuckled the darky, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, then you know what to do, Sam. I want you to fix us up in your
very best style. Mr. Mercer has never dangled a bit of white meat.”
Sam went out, chuckling aloud, and Roy was too astonished for words. He
didn’t like to ask questions, for the purser had once admonished him to
keep his eyes open and his mouth shut if he wished to get ahead in the
world; so he waited for the purser to explain. But Mr. Robbins gave him
no hint of what to expect. All he said was, “We’ll just check off this
last list while Sam is getting us ready.” But Roy could see that the
purser’s eyes were dancing.
Before they were done with the check-list, Sam reappeared. He had two
large chunks of whitish meat, each piece weighing a pound or more, and
each being attached to a long length of strong cord.
The purser threw down the list they were checking. “Come on,” he said,
and picking up the two pieces of meat, he led the way on deck. A yawl
was bobbing alongside the _Lycoming_ and a rope ladder had been let
down to it. In the yawl lay two scoop nets. Mr. Robbins dropped the
meat into the yawl, then led the way down the ladder.
“Now lower your meat into the water until it is completely out of
sight,” said the purser, when the two had seated themselves at opposite
ends of the little boat. “When you feel something nibbling at your
bait, pull up very slowly and gently. So.” And he dropped his meat into
the water, then carefully raised it.
Roy did as directed, and sat very still, holding the line over his
forefinger. The current tugged at his bait and deceived him at first
and he lifted his meat in vain. But presently he felt a very different
sort of pull on his cord. Drawing it upward ever so gently, the white
meat presently came in sight and hanging to it with its two claws was a
greenish-blue creature with a number of flippers gently waving in the
water.
“Easy now,” urged the purser. “Scoop him gently or you’ll lose him.
He’s a big one.” And he thrust one of the nets into Roy’s hand.
But Roy was too eager. He made a little splash as he dipped the net,
and the creature sank from sight. Roy made a vigorous scoop with the
net, but missed it.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Roy. “That was a fool trick. I’ll bet I don’t scare
the next one away.”
Nor did he. The purser lifted and netted one of the creatures while Roy
was speaking, and dropped it in the bottom of the boat. But before Roy
had time to look at it, he felt another tug at his line. Gently lifting
his bait, he discovered another of the creatures nibbling at it. This
one was a whopper. Taking great care, Roy netted the thing and dropped
it in the boat with an exclamation of triumph.
“They look exactly like crabs,” said Roy, “only they are green instead
of red.”
The purser burst into a roar of laughter, and over his head Roy heard
suppressed titterings. He looked up and saw several of the stewards,
including Sam, watching them.
“Forgive me, old fellow,” said the purser after a moment, wiping his
eyes with his handkerchief. “I just couldn’t help laughing. They are
crabs, all right enough. Those you are evidently familiar with have
been boiled. These will be red, too, when they are cooked. Boiling
changes their color.”
Roy laughed heartily at his own mistake. “I don’t wonder they turn red
when they’re boiled,” he said. “I believe I should, too. And I don’t
wonder you laughed at me.”
“I’m heartily ashamed of myself,” said the purser, now sober enough,
“but I just couldn’t help it.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” smiled Roy. “I should have laughed harder
than you did if I had been in your place.”
“Good for you, Roy,” rejoined the purser. “Anybody who can laugh at a
joke when it’s on himself, will get along all right.”
In a short time they had caught a fine mess of crabs and the creatures
were crawling all over the bottom of the boat. Roy tried to pick one of
them up, but the crab nipped his fingers with its claws until the blood
came.
“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Roy. “They sure can pinch.”
“Let me show you how to handle them,” suggested the purser. And
selecting the largest and fiercest looking crab in the boat, he deftly
caught it from behind and picked it up. The creature tried in vain to
pinch the purser’s fingers but could not reach them. Imitating the
purser, Roy safely picked up a crab and soon was holding one aloft in
each hand.
“Sam,” said the purser, dropping his meat into the bottom of the boat,
“see what you can do with these fellows. And remember, Mr. Mercer has
never eaten fresh crabs.”
When the two fishermen had climbed to the deck of the _Lycoming_ and
Sam had taken charge of the crabs, the purser said to Roy, “Now run
along and enjoy yourself. I’m a thousand times obliged to you for your
help.”
“Isn’t there anything more that I can do to help you?” asked Roy.
“Not a thing, lad. One can finish what remains as well as two, and
perhaps better than two. But I’m obliged to you for the offer.”
“I’m obliged to you for the dinner and the introduction to real, live
crabs,” said Roy as he turned away from the purser and found himself
face to face with the chief engineer.
“Well, did you enjoy yourself?” asked Mr. Anderson, with a smile. “I
saw you crabbing with Mr. Robbins.”
“I had a fine time,” answered Roy. “It was my first experience at
catching crabs.”
“You’re seeing lots of new things, aren’t you?”
“Yes, indeed, and they are all interesting. Sometime I hope you will be
willing to show me your engines.”
Mr. Anderson’s face lighted up like a child’s. “Would you really like
to see them?” he asked.
“Indeed I would, Mr. Anderson. I want to learn everything I can about
ships. Sometime I may be able to make use of the knowledge.”
“That’s the way to get ahead in the world,” commented the chief
engineer. “Learn all you can about everything. If you are not busy now,
I’ll be happy to show you the engine room. It’s always a pleasure to
show things to people when they are interested.”
“Thank you, Mr. Anderson. I shall be glad indeed to see the engine
room.”
They went down into the interior of the ship. “These are the
coal-bunkers,” said the chief engineer, showing Roy the rows of
compartments where the coal was kept and explaining how it was carried
to the fire-room by coal-passers. The fire-room itself seemed like a
furnace to Roy, but Mr. Anderson said it was quite cool, for some of
the fires had been drawn altogether and most of those still burning
were banked.
“If you want to know what heat is,” said Mr. Anderson, “you must come
down here sometime when we’re making maximum steam pressure. Then every
one of these furnaces is roaring hot. At that time the only air that
gets into the fire-room comes down through the ventilators and goes
up through the furnace. That’s what we call forced draught. It keeps
the firemen busy then to feed the fires and rake the grates clear of
clinkers. You can see what beds of coals they have to tend.”
He threw open a furnace door. Even with the fire burning low, the wave
of heat seemed stifling to Roy.
“How can they ever stand it to work in such heat?” asked Roy. “The
temperature must be terrible here when all your fires are roaring.”
“Yes; it gets pretty hot. I suppose the thermometer touches 150 or 160
degrees at times. The men wear thick woolen shirts to protect them from
the heat. But even so they can’t stand it very long at a stretch. They
work in four-hour shifts.”
With great interest Roy looked at the huge boilers and all the shining
machinery. He had no idea it required such a great lot of engines to
run a steamship.
“It’s mighty interesting,” said Roy, when they had completed their
inspection, “and I am very much obliged to you for showing this to me.
Sometime I want to come down when all your fires are going. I’m glad I
have seen it all, for now it will mean more to me when the ship is at
sea. I’ll think of you fellows sweating away down here in order that
the ship may sail safely.”
“And we’ll think of you, way up in your perch, keeping watch and
calling help if we need it. It’s a great comfort to know that the
_Lycoming_ is equipped with wireless. The old boat we used to run on
had no wireless, and many’s the storm I’ve been through when I thought
my last minute was near. I tell you we have some rough weather down
here in the Gulf.”
“Well,” said Roy ruefully, “I’m glad you don’t agree with the captain
about wireless. It’s rather discouraging to work in such circumstances.
It will help me to do good work to think about you fellows down in the
engine room.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Anderson, “it takes a good many men to run a big
ship, and every one has to do his work well if the ship is to be safe.
But when you think of the rest of us, don’t forget that the captain is
working for you just as hard as the rest of us, and perhaps harder. You
mustn’t let your differences with the skipper blind you to his worth.
He’s a great sailor. Some day you’ll admire him as much as the rest of
us do. Good-bye. Come again.”
Roy spent many hours watching the unloading of the ship. It was
interesting to see the big boom draw over the open hatch and the great
netfuls of freight come slowly up out of the hold and swing over the
ship’s side and down to the wharf. But eventually the scene lost its
charm, and Roy was glad enough when the purser came along one morning
and invited him to take a walk along the water-front. They visited a
number of ships, and Roy saw several that he had read about in the
newspapers. Everybody seemed glad to see the purser, and Roy did not
wonder that he had so many friends. They went aboard one of the big
ships of the Ward Line, and the purser made Roy known to the wireless
man and some of the officers, as he had done on each ship.
“You came down just a lap behind us,” said the wireless man, whose name
was Reynolds, “and you’ll be only a few hours behind us going back.
I’ll give you a call once in a while and let you know what sort of
weather is ahead of you.”
“Thanks,” said Roy. “That will be fine.”
“You should have arrived a day sooner,” said Mr. Reynolds, turning to
the purser. “The _Empress_ left just twelve hours before you came in.”
And then to Roy he added, “Stimson is wireless man on the _Empress_.
He’s a bully good fellow, and you’ll like him.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the purser. “The captain will be sorry to hear that.
Funny about those two men, isn’t it?”
The wireless man nodded and the purser turned to Roy, who was wondering
what he meant.
“You know the captain’s brother is in command of the _Empress_,” he
explained. “She runs to Cuba and South America. The two men have been
sailing to this port for a long time, but they haven’t seen each other
in ten years. They always seem to miss each other. Their schedules
just don’t quite overlap, and both are such blame good sailors they’re
always on schedule.”
“You bet they’re good sailors,” said Mr. Reynolds with emphasis.
“You’re a lucky fellow to start your life afloat with such a commander
as Captain John Lansford. He’s easily the best commander your line
possesses, and I rate him as the best sailing into Galveston. He
wouldn’t be commodore of the Confederated Lines if he weren’t a
crackerjack, you can bet, and he wouldn’t be in charge of their newest
and finest boat. But his brother is a close second.”
Roy made no reply. He had no idea his commander ranked so high.
Presently they said good-bye to Mr. Reynolds and continued on up the
water-front. They visited a number of great warehouses, had a look
inside a grain elevator, and went aboard several more ships. Altogether
Roy met eight or ten wireless operators. He felt grateful to the purser
for making him acquainted with these men. He foresaw that it would make
his work much more pleasant. When they came back to the ship the day
was almost ended. Roy noticed that the big boom was no longer working,
but had been made fast again. Evidently the ship was unloaded. Next day
they would begin to take on cargo. Excepting for a few small shipments
of stuff from Mexican ports, the cargo would consist almost wholly of
cotton.
The instant Roy set eyes on his commander the next morning, he knew
something was wrong. From the purser he soon learned that the cotton
train that was bringing the _Lycoming_’s cargo had been wrecked, and
would be many hours late, if not indeed whole days behind time. There
was considerable cotton in the warehouse, but nowhere nearly enough to
fill the _Lycoming’s_ capacious holds.
The Mexican stuff was put aboard first. There were logs of mahogany,
bags of coffee, bundles of crude rubber, quantities of cocoanuts, and
bales of hemp. These were stowed in the very nose of the ship. Then the
colored roustabouts began to load the cotton.
Roy had been astonished at the work done by the stevedores in New
York. He was simply amazed at the herculean labors of the dusky cotton
handlers. From the far end of the great warehouse, they came trundling
the huge cotton bales, each weighing approximately five hundred pounds,
on their little barrel trucks. But what astonished Roy was the way
they shot their great loads into the ship’s hold. The tide was at ebb,
and the _Lycoming’s_ open ports were far below the level of the wharf.
Down a steep gangway cut into the pier itself went the roustabouts,
one behind another in a constant stream, each riding the handles of
his truck to lessen the speed as his heavy load fairly shot down the
incline. By the time the truck plunged through the open port its
momentum was terrific. Yet the roustabout regained his footing, and
guided the fast-moving truck to one side with incredible skill, often
turning it at a sharp angle. For a long time Roy watched the ceaseless
procession of cotton bales shoot into the _Lycoming’s_ hold. At first
he hardly breathed for fear a truck would upset as it made the sharp
turn, and those behind it come crashing into it, probably mutilating,
if not killing outright, the roustabouts that guided them. But truck
after truck came plunging down, one close behind another, while the
returning freight handlers as ceaselessly pushed their empty trucks up
the other side of the gangway. It seemed to Roy that an accident _must_
happen. Yet minute after minute passed and the procession of cotton
bales continued without interruption.
For an hour Roy watched the roustabouts, his wonder at their strength
and skill increasing minute by minute. Finally he decided that he
would ask Mr. Young to show him the wheel-house and the officers’
quarters. He had hardly reached the main stairway, however, before
a revenue officer came bustling aboard and demanded to see the
_Lycoming’s_ commander. Sam, the steward, carried the officer’s message
up to the captain’s cabin, and a moment later Captain Lansford came
striding down the stairway.
The revenue officer greeted him with great politeness. “I’m sorry to
tell you, Captain Lansford,” he said, “that we are in receipt of a tip
that a quantity of whiskey has been smuggled into this port from Mexico
in bales of hemp. I have traced the bales and find they have been
loaded aboard the _Lycoming_. I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll have to examine
those bales.”
The captain gave an exclamation of disgust. “Where are those bales
stowed?” he asked, turning to the officer in charge of loading.
“Forrard, sir, in the very nose of the ship.”
“Can we get at them easily?”
“There are a few hundred bales of cotton piled on top of them and
behind them.”
“The dickens!” snorted the captain. “Get ’em out, and be quick about
it.”
Instantly word was passed to the roustabouts to stop loading and take
their trucks into the hold. But the roustabouts could not shift the
cargo fast enough to suit Captain Lansford.
“Get your donkey-engine ready to hoist those hemp bales out,” he
ordered.
The engine had been stowed forward. Skids were put under it, the engine
was shifted into position, the belt slipped on, and the foremast
derrick-boom unlashed and coupled up with the engine.
Meantime the roustabouts had been taking the cotton bales from the nose
of the ship and trucking them aft of the forward hatch, where they
dumped them down without order. The result was that the forward hold
speedily filled and the cotton began to pile up under the hatchway.
When Captain Lansford noticed it he exploded with anger. “Get those
bales out of that,” he shouted at the roustabouts. “We want the
hatchway clear for hoisting.”
Not all the cotton had yet been removed from the forehold and the way
aft was blocked by the cotton that had been thrown helter-skelter by
the roustabouts.
“Start your engine,” called the captain, “and jerk some of those bales
out on deck.”
The donkey-engine was started and bale after bale lifted to the deck,
while the roustabouts below were struggling desperately to shift the
bales away from the hatchway. In the haste the cotton was handled
recklessly. Some of the metal bale straps were broken, the white, snowy
contents bulging out of the sacking like pop-corn swelling out of an
overfilled popper. But finally all the cotton was got out of the road.
The deck about the hatchway was piled high with it, and the hold near
the hatch was heaped with disorderly piles of it.
Next the bales of hemp were trucked to the hatchway and hoisted, one by
one, to the deck. Eagerly the revenue officer attacked them, cutting
bands, tearing out handfuls of the long, dry fibres, and probing in the
hearts of the bales. Soon the deck was littered with loose hemp fibres
and wads of cotton, that the stiff breeze blew about in little clouds.
Bale after bale was torn open, but though he searched every bale, the
revenue officer found no smuggled whiskey. In great mortification he
apologized to the captain for his interference with loading operations.
Roy was surprised at the captain’s reply.
“You were merely doing your duty,” he said, “and no apologies are
necessary. Have a cigar--a real Havana--sent me by my brother--and not
smuggled, sir.” And the captain opened his cigar case and extended it
to his visitor.
“Well, wouldn’t that jar you?” said Roy to himself. “I expected to
see some fireworks and here he hands the revenue man a good cigar. I
noticed one thing. He said it was all right because the man was doing
his duty. Maybe there’s hope for me after all.”
The revenue officer went away. Captain Lansford ordered the cargo
stowed again and went to his quarters. Mr. Young took charge, and soon
the roustabouts were putting the ship to rights again. Roy lingered to
watch them.
First of all the hemp bales had to go back in place. Cords were
brought and the bales tied up in the best way possible. But it was not
practicable to replace the torn-out fibres. One by one the hemp bales
were lowered into the hold. The cotton bales followed. Roy noticed
that when these great quarter-ton packages rose above the deck they
climbed aloft jerkily and he saw that the belt on the donkey-engine was
slipping badly. For several minutes he watched, then walked over to the
donkey-engine to see what was wrong. Cotton bales were piled all about
and he had to edge his way between them and the whirling belt. Suddenly
the wind lifted his hat. He grabbed for it, then jumped back as though
he had been jabbed with a pin.
“I must have been scraped by the moving belt,” thought Roy. But a
second later he muttered, “Why, a belt couldn’t have felt like that
through my clothes! Wonder what it was.”
Curious, he again pressed close to the belt and again something stung
him.
“Electricity,” thought Roy. “That slipping belt is generating
electricity.”
Then he thought of the cotton. A glance showed him a ragged bale with a
metal strap broken in two places, and one jagged end swaying close to
the moving belt. Across the bale, and lying fairly on the broken metal
band, rested a chain that had been flung there to clear the deck. Its
lower end dangled across the metal frame of the hatchway. The thought
of fire flashed through Roy’s head. A spark leaping to the broken band
as it had leaped to his body, might ignite the ragged bale. The litter
of cotton and hemp fibre, swirling in the wind and falling through the
hatchway, would carry the flames like tinder to the heart of the ship.
“Mr. Young,” shouted Roy. “Get that bale away quick!”
But even as he spoke a spark leaped across the break in the bale strap.
A second spark might fire the bale. There was no time for words. Roy
leaped to the belt and frantically tore it loose. The donkey-engine
began to race at terrible speed. The bale in mid-air came tumbling
down on the heaped-up cotton, bounced to the deck, and landed fairly
against the racing donkey-engine. With a crash that jarred the ship
the engine overturned. Snap! went the piston-rod. Then the machine lay
still.
Roy was aghast. He turned to the first officer to explain. The captain,
aroused by the noise, came running down the stairway. His face grew
black as he surveyed the ruin.
“What does this mean?” he demanded, turning to Mr. Young.
But before the first officer could speak, Roy stepped in front of the
captain.
“I did it to prevent fire, sir,” he said.
The captain exploded with wrath. “What do you mean by interfering with
the operation of the ship?” he said fiercely. “If there was danger of
fire, why didn’t you notify the officer in charge?”
“I did try to, sir, but there wasn’t time. The belt was generating
electricity and the broken bale strap was already charged with it.
I saw one spark, and if I hadn’t thrown the belt off the engine the
cotton might have been afire in a second. With all this litter on deck,
the wind blowing so hard, and the hatchway open, the ship might have
burned. I’m sorry I broke the engine, sir, but I acted to save the
ship.”
“All nonsense. Who ever heard of a donkey-engine belt making sparks.
Don’t you ever dare to interfere with operations on shipboard again. Go
to your quarters. And in future try to control your imagination.”