All about orders were flying thick and fast. Cap’n Pem was roaring from the break of the poop. Captain Edwards had leaped to the wheel and was shouting commands. Mr. Kemp in the main shrouds was cursing the men for their slowness. Back and forth to braces, sheets and halyards the men were rushing and hauling in a vain effort to save the ship. Then, from under the boys’ feet came rapid pistol-like reports; above the cries of the men, drowning the creak and squeal of block and sheave, barked the exhaust of the motor; the Narwhal forged ahead, she swung slowly to her rudder and, with not five feet to spare, slid by the threatening reefs to safety.
With blank faces boys and men gazed at one another. Who had saved the ship? It was not Mike, he was stumping hurriedly aft as puzzled as any one.
“B’ Saint Pathrick!” he cried. “’Tis a sphirit Oi’m thinkin’!”
With the boys by his side he hurried through the cabin towards the tiny engine room where the motor was still throbbing steadily.
“Glory be!” he exclaimed, as he caught sight of the figure bending over the motor. “Glory be, ’tis thot dummy av a blacksmith!”
“Gosh, it is!” cried Tom. “The deaf-and-dumb man!”
“B’jabbers thin ’tis no dummy in his brains he do be, at thot!” roared Mike. “B’ the powers, ’tis lucky we do be, thot Oi tould him to be afther doin’ a bit o’ worruk on the injine.”
The deaf mute straightened up and stared blankly at the three. Then, moving his fingers in an attempt to explain matters, he shut off the motor, picked up his kit of tools and walked forward.
“Gee, I’d like to know how it happened,” declared Tom. “He couldn’t have heard the orders or excitement. I’m going to ask Swanson.”
A broad grin overspread the big Swede’s features as, in response to Tom’s questions, he interrogated the deaf mute and watched the fellow’s fingers communicating his reply.