CHAPTER IX
THWARTING A WIRELESS INCENDIARY
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.”