THE BOYS PROVE THEIR METAL
“How long will those fires under the other boilers hold, Mr. Morris?”
asked the captain, as the chief engineer came up to him.
“About ten minutes at the present speed, sir.”
“How long if we anchor?”
“Two hours, certainly, perhaps three.”
“Good! Will you carry a message for me, Phil?” the skipper asked
suddenly, turning to the boy.
“I’m here, sir,” hurriedly announced the second mate, his tone and
manner showing his resentment that the duty of bearing important
communications should be entrusted to a landlubber.
“I know it, Hansen, and I want you to stay here,” returned the captain,
testily. “How about it, Phil?”
“Surely, Captain Perkins,” replied the boy.
“Then go to the bridge and tell Mr. Adams, the first mate, to slow down
until he barely has steerage way, then to turn the wheel over to the
wheelsman and join me here. Understand?” The boy was part-way up the
ladder by the time the instructions were finished, and he never stopped
in his ascent as he called back his “Yes, sir.”
Smiling at the excited eagerness of the young passenger, the skipper
turned to the chief engineer.
“Mr. Morris, have your assistant go above to the engine room and keep
his eye on Swanson,” he instructed.
“I’ll go myself, sir.”
“No, I want you here.”
Quickly the chief went to his assistant, who was puttering around the
recently raked fire box, and delivered the order.
In evident reluctance to leave before the cause of the lack of water had
been discovered, the man obeyed.
“Mate, tell the coal passers and firemen to go on deck and cool off,”
continued the captain, “and you, chief, go above and bring down some
extension lights, wrenches, and whatever else you think we may need.”
Now that the danger of the boiler exploding was over, the firemen and
coal passers were loath to go above, all being eager to learn the cause
of the difficulty. Captain Perkins, however, was determined that only
his highest officers should share the knowledge when it was ascertained,
and he hastened the ascent of the lagging passers with a few curt
orders.
“How about this boy, sir?” inquired the second mate, nodding at Ted.
Ere the skipper could reply, the first mate slid down the ladder, and
after a hasty glance at the raked fire asked:
“What’s wrong, skipper?”
“I don’t know. Water got low in No. 3 boiler. Ah, here’s Morris. Help
him adjust his extension lights and then we’ll find out.” Springing
forward, the two mates took the coils of insulated cable, with
wire-encased bulbs on one end, and quickly adjusted the other end to the
sockets of the stationary electric lights and turned on the current.
“You take one lamp, Morris, and I’ll take the other,” said the skipper.
“Adams, you and Hansen make ready to examine the flues in case we don’t
find any—”
“Wait a minute, Captain Perkins, wait a minute,” called a voice from the
hatchway, and looking up, those below beheld Phil, a paper fluttering in
his hand.
“I’ve a wireless for you, Captain,” exclaimed the boy excitedly, as he
scrambled down the ladder.
“Plague take the thing! instructions from Atwood, I suppose,” growled
the skipper as he reached out for the sheet of paper. “The wireless is a
fine thing in time of trouble or accident, but it’s a nuisance having
the owners able to reach you any moment. A captain can’t run his own
boat any longer. Dewey knew what he was about when he cut the cable
after he had taken Manila. I—”
“Swanson’s reported sick and wants to go to his bunk,” interrupted the
assistant engineer.
Instantly the chief and the mates exchanged hurried glances, then looked
at their superior, but he seemed too absorbed in reading the despatch to
have heard.
That he had heard, however, was quickly evident. After reading the
message a second time, he thrust it into his pocket, then faced his
officers, who were amazed at the sternness of his expression.
“So the dog’s reported sick, has he?” he snapped. “Well, keep him in the
engine room until I can get up there. Mr. Adams, fetch the irons.”
Their faces looking the questions discipline forbade them asking, the
officers followed the captain up the ladder, all having disappeared
through the hatch while the two boys stood staring after them.
“Wonder what the trouble is?” murmured Ted.
“It’s about Swanson. I read the message, only don’t let on,” returned
his brother.
“What did it say?”
“Never mind. Didn’t you see the skipper wouldn’t show it to the others?”
“I can keep a secret as well as you—and I’ll tell Captain Perkins unless
you tell me,” asserted Ted.
“Come close then.” And as his brother obeyed, Phil whispered in his ear,
“It said: ‘Watch your boilers closely. Relieve oiler Swanson from duty
upon receipt of this message and place in irons. Put him ashore at
Toledo. Will have man there to take his place. Atwood.’”
“Crickey! Then it’s Swanson who tampered with—”
“Keep still!” snapped his brother.
The caution, however, was unnecessary, for there came sounds of
scuffling from above that would have drowned anything but the loudest
shout from below.
An instant the boys gazed at one another. Then, actuated by the same
impulse, they sprang for the ladder and were mounting it, when a form
appeared in the hatchway, and a foot began to feel for a ladder rung,
while a voice snarled:
“You’ll never put me in irons.”
“Quick, some of you, Adams, Morris! Don’t let the fellow get below!”
roared the voice of the captain.
A mocking laugh was the oiler’s answer as he threw his legs about the
ladder and started to slide down.
So sudden had been the appearance of the man that the boys had only time
to mount a couple of rungs, and as they heard the skipper’s words, they
stepped back.
His training as captain of his school nine had taught Phil to think
quickly, and as he beheld the oiler sliding down he exclaimed to his
brother:
“Stand on that side of the ladder. Grab his arms when he comes down.
I’ll take his legs.”
Startled at the sound of voices below him when he thought every one was
above, Swanson turned his head and saw the boys.
Ere he could check himself, however, Phil had seized his legs in a most
effectual football tackle, and, though the oiler kicked desperately, the
boy managed to hold on.
Unable to reach the fellow’s arms, Ted sprang to his brother’s
assistance.
“Pretty work! Good boys! Hang to him!” came from the hatchway, as the
captain and his officers beheld the scene below, and almost before the
shouts of encouragement had ceased the skipper and his first mate were
in the fire room and Swanson was overpowered.
“Take him on deck, Captain?” asked the second mate.
“No. Make him fast to a stanchion and then we’ll get to work again.”
The task was quickly accomplished, and picking up the lights and tools,
the men once more started to examine the boiler.
Determined not to miss any of the excitement, the boys had preceded the
others, and as the light illumined the back of the boiler, Ted glanced
at a pipe, then rushed to that of the next boiler and felt of it.
“The stop-cock in the feed pipe is shut off!” he cried excitedly. “See,
Captain Perkins!” and he pointed to the brass handle which stood at
right angles to the pipe instead of in line with it.
Investigation by the chief engineer proved that Ted’s statement was
correct.
“Pretty good for a boy, eh, Sam?” asked the captain, turning to his
engineer.
“I told you I liked machinery,” returned Ted, happily.
“Want a job?” smiled the chief.
“I’d like it if I weren’t going farming.”
“You’ll earn more here and with less work.”
“Perhaps, but if I hadn’t made up my mind to be a farmer, I should have
stuck to my airship, sir.”
“Well, any time you change your mind, just send word to Sam Morris, in
care of Mr. Atwood, and he’ll find you a place.”
During this conversation the chief had turned the stop-cock to its
rightful position.
“Water’s rising in No. 8’s glass,” shouted the assistant engineer from
the hatch. “Found the trouble?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“Tell you by and by.”
The trick which had put the splendid vessel and her crew in such
jeopardy was so simple that the chief did not dare announce it, lest
some of the crew should hear it and perhaps repeat the operation in the
event of their becoming disgruntled.
The trouble remedied, the oiler was taken on deck, the coal passers and
firemen returned to their stations, the fire was rekindled under No. 8,
the first mate returned to the bridge, and soon the Admiral was bowling
along at her usual speed.
As the boys walked forward with the skipper, Ted noticed a steel cable,
fully half an inch in diameter, that extended from the cabins forward to
the deck houses aft.
“What’s that for, Captain?” he inquired. “I noticed it before, but I
forgot to ask about it.”
“We call it our ‘trolley.’ It’s really a life line. When we are loaded,
we have only a couple of feet free board. If a bad storm comes up, the
waves pour over the deck and it is dangerous work to walk from one end
of the boat to the other. In such weather, and especially in the fall,
when the deck is ice-coated, the men sling a bo’s’n’s chair to a wheel,
place the wheel on the cable, and slide back and forth.”
“No, tell me really, please,” returned the boy, eying the skipper
incredulously.
“And so I am. If you could see some of the storms we have, with waves
twenty or thirty feet high pouring over the deck, you’d realize a man
takes his life in his hands when he tries to walk the length of the
boat.”
“Well, I hope we don’t have any such weather,” declared Phil, as they
mounted the bridge and entered the pilot house, where they watched the
wheelsman hold the big carrier on its course and later saw the first
mate enter the incident of the boiler room in the log-book.
“By the way, Mr. Adams, has the log been set?” asked Captain Perkins, as
he entered the pilot house.
“Jove, I forgot it, sir, in the excitement.”
“Then tell the watchman to set it.”
As the officer started off in obedience, the boys followed him.
Entering the lamp room, which was located in one of the after-deck
houses, the watchman took down a coil of cod line to one end of which
was attached a small brass swivel, while to the other end was fastened a
hook. Then he took down a brass-encased instrument which looked like a
small edition of an iceman’s scales. Going to one of the stanchions near
the stem of the boat, on the starboard side, the watchman made the
indicator fast with a piece of rope, then placed the hook of the log
line in its hole, and lowered the log into the water.
“The only trick about this is to be careful not to lower so fast that
the hook jumps out of its hole. If it does, the log is lost,” explained
the watchman. “You have to look out, too, to drop the log far enough out
so that it doesn’t get foul of the ship’s propeller.”
“But how does it work?” asked Phil.
As the line was all paid out and the log was churning through the water,
the watchman pointed to the scale-like indicator.
“Just look at that pointer and you’ll see,” he replied. “The log pulls
on the line, which, in turn, pulls on the scale, and the number to which
the indicator points is the speed we are making. It’s easier to read
than the old-fashioned wooden log.”
“It points to ten, now,” declared Ted.
“She’ll go higher as soon as No. 3 gets back into commission. We average
between fourteen and fifteen knots an hour, empty.”
“How fast loaded?” asked Phil.
“Between ten and twelve; depends on the wind and currents.”
“How long do you keep the log overboard?” inquired the younger boy.
“All the time except when we enter a harbour, or the canal, and going
through the Detroit and St. Mary’s rivers.”
“Why not then?”
“Because the navigation rules compel us to slacken speed and there are
too many boats to be passed. Hooray, it’s grub time,” he added, as a boy
in white coat and apron passed along the deck ringing a big bell.