WHEN Hiram Strong collapsed it did not surprise the other firemen. It
was not a rare occurrence for even seasoned firemen to faint. But it did
amaze the engine-room crew at the ease with which I took him in my arms,
for he weighed at least one hundred and sixty pounds. I laid him down
beneath the ventilator, where the others had prepared a place for him. I
then removed his cap and dashed a pail of cold water over his face and
chest, coal dust and dirt having washed up in his black, wavy hair.
For the first time since I had met him I got a good look at the
youngster's face. Even during this temporary lapse the slightly upturned
corners of his mouth and the red of his lips showed, lending the
impression that he was about to break out into a sunny smile. There was
nothing about his features to indicate the confirmed inebriate or
debauchee. He had a good, honest ear, a clean neck and a generous
breadth of shoulder. After making sure of his respiration and heart
action, I returned to my post to feed his furnace and mine. To maintain
two hundred and eighty pounds of steam on the gauge required constant,
back-breaking shoveling. In a few minutes both furnaces were roaring,
with one blowing off a notice to the engineer that, although one of the
crew had fainted, the boilers were hot.
It was perhaps a quarter of an hour before Strong raised himself to a
sitting posture and looked over toward me. He was dazed, and blinked
like an owl. I waved to him to stay where he was and rest. For answer he
made a "cat's cradle" by clasping his hands before his knees, unmindful
of the fact that he was seated in a pool of water and saturated coal
dust.
We evidently had a good head wind outside, for it rushed down through
the big ventilator as though driven by an exhaust fan, thus rapidly
reviving Strong. However, it would not be well for him to remain in the
draft too long, so I crossed over and helped him to regain his feet. He
reeled and stumbled as he walked back to his station, which took grit,
but there was no evidence of self-pity.
For the remainder of the watch Strong was unable to do much work. First
he tried to shovel coal, but found he couldn't lift it. However, he
insisted on staying around while I shoveled, occasionally opening and
closing the furnace doors. All the while he maintained his attitude of
silence, apparently taking it for granted that I understood the
situation and was willing to help him. At last the eight o'clock relief
crew came, and although still weak, he made the narrow iron stair to the
deck much easier than when he descended four hours before. He was
adapting himself to the conditions the best he could.
Strong soon washed up and donned clean wear, which seemed to refresh
him, but coal dust still showing about his eyes, ears and brow gave him
the appearance of an actor made up for his part. At mess he devoured
soup with relish, but when he tried the stew, made up of overdone neck,
cuts of fried beef and cold potatoes, he tossed the pan and its contents
overboard.
"I need sleep more than that stuff," he said, and straightway made for
his bunk.
Six hours later I found him standing beside me at the rail in the waist
of the ship and he appeared to be much improved. His fine skin glowed,
but his hands looked as though they had been parboiled, with palms badly
blistered. His trousers were dirty, dry, stiff, baggy and wrinkled. On
the upper part of his body he wore nothing but a silk undershirt, and
for his overworked feet he had pulled on a pair of sandals.
It is quite as impossible to disguise a real man as it is for a
make-believe to pass himself off for a gentleman. Though unaware of how
to go about it, he began taking my measure quite as coldly as I was his,
after which he spoke his first connected words since we came together.
"It was mighty decent of you to help me out last night," he said,
affably, holding a lighted cigarette contemplatively. Evidently his
decision favored me.
"Every one has to make a beginning; you did very well to stay there
during the whole of your first watch," said I, ignoring his thanks.
"Is it always as hot down there as it was last night?"
"Yes; sometimes more so. You see, last night we had a head wind."
"After my hands harden, and my stomach becomes accustomed to the food,
I guess I'll be able to stand it all right." As he said this he looked
at the palms of his hands ruefully. The backs were scarlet and glossy.
"You can if you want to," I replied. "You have the build. The food is
coarse, but perhaps the best for that kind of work. Four hours is not
very long to stand anything; you have not worked lately?"
"Lately?--never!" Then as though frightened at my reference to his past
or even himself, he surprised me by asking, "How soon do we eat
again?--I believe I could eat some of that horse-meat now."
"You think it's horse-meat?"
"Well, if it's not horse-meat, it came off a bull just behind the horns.
However, my grates are clean and there's a good draft; I believe I can
get up steam on it now," he ended with a reckless laugh, indicating
that, although languid from his final fling in New York, he had noted
fully how to proceed with his work in the boiler-room.
"Perhaps by going back to the galley we can get a bite. It's nearly two
hours before we go on watch, but it's better to give the stomach a
chance before doing hard work," I suggested, leading the way to that
mysterious quarter of the ship where the cook is king.
This time we inherited mutton stew and the usual bread allowance, which
we ate as we sat on the edge of a hatch.
Looking across the water, I noted that we were still hugging shore, but
were now far enough south to be free from the chill November winds of
New York. We were now favored with a balmy, invigorating breeze.
Strong's first question was not unexpected after he glanced at some
curious passengers on the deck above us, amused at our sumptuous meal
and manner of taking it.
"How do you happen among this gang?" he asked, laying his bread
allowance on the hatch and poising a knife and fork that came with the
ship direct from the builders twenty years before.
I looked at him squarely and knew I had to give a logical reply. His
straight nose showed the power of logical analysis. The thought came to
me that he had somehow robbed a marble image of Cleopatra of its nose
and clapped it on his own face. There could be no question of his
inherent refinement. Such a person one usually answers civilly, though
the questions be frivolous.
"Well, you see, in order to get a marine license you must do a certain
amount of sea duty in the fire room."
"Is a marine license so very desirable?"
"Chief engineer is a pretty good berth, especially now. Those running in
the war zone get good pay and a big bonus besides, you know."
"Are we in the war zone?" he asked with some surprise.
"Yes--don't you see those lifeboats swung out? One of the firemen told
me last night that this line had lost two ships--both torpedoed."
"And I suppose the firemen get the worst of it on account of being so
far below?" he queried, glancing nervously at the dim shore line.
"Yes. Then, you know, there are supposed to be mines all along the
coast."
Without comment he gnawed the last piece of meat from the bone and
tossed the refuse overboard. Two young girls among the passengers above
giggled at that. Strong flushed, but gave no other outward sign of
annoyance.
"Then we are liable to be plugged any time?" he asked.
"Yes; there is a possibility."
"Well, if I get another dose like I got last night I believe I would
welcome it," he laughed, looking at his blistered hands.
"You will soon learn how to favor yourself, and the work won't be so
hard."
"But you say the men who do the actual work get the worst of things."
"Yes--I think so. Firemen are the feet of the ship, you know."
"I think I was all feet last night," he replied, smiling dolefully. "I
have heard professors rant about the dignity of labor," he replied,
arising with the empty pan, having enjoyed the first full meal he had
ever actually earned. "However, I have signed for a round trip and I'm
going to stick if it kills me," he added, half to himself, as he went
below.
When he came on watch at four the fire of adventure had taken the place
of Hiram Strong's glassy stare of debauchery. He cleaned and shook his
grates without coaching, heaving the coal well back in the fire-box. I
knew that every bone and muscle of his body was crying out in protest.
Later I saw blood from the blisters show through the cotton gloves, but
he worked stolidly, silent and grim. Surely he was game.
We were getting farther south, the wind coming hot and the boiler-room
an inferno. As Strong worked he perspired to the point of melting. I saw
him grit his teeth, determined not to show another white feather, and
when we were washing up at the end of that four-hour watch, there was
something of unction in his remark, to himself: "Thank God, it didn't
get me this time!" Sensibly he went to his bunk without eating.