His eyes sparkled, and it was evident that he had found the pompous little commander much to his distaste. The captain did not seek to speak to Ruth at all. He stood at one side as the stokers filed in from forward, ready to relieve those working in the fireroom below.
“Do you see him in that line, Miss Fielding?” whispered the first officer.
She scrutinized the men carefully. Early that morning she had had plenty of opportunity to get the appearance of the German who spoke to Irma Lentz photographed on her mind, and she knew at first glance that he was not in this group.
However, she took her time and scrutinized them all carefully. There was not a single flaxen-haired man among them, and nobody that in the least seemed like the man she had in mind.
“No,” she said to Mr. Dowd. “He is not here.”
“Wait till the others come up. There! The boatswain pipes.”
The shrill whistle started the waiting stokers down the ladder into the stoke-hole. In a minute or two a red, sweating, ashes-streaked face appeared as the first of the watch relieved came up into the engine room. This was not the man Ruth looked for.
One after another the men appeared—Irish, Swede, Dane, negro, and nondescript; but never a German. And not one of the fellows looked at all like the man Ruth expected to see. Dowd gazed upon her questioningly. Ruth slowly shook her head.
“Any more firemen or coal passers down there, boy?” Dowd asked the negro stoker.
“No, suh! Ain’t none of de watch lef’ behind,” declared the man, as he followed his mates forward.