“They tell me you boys are radio fans,” he concluded, as he rose to leave the room. “Well, I congratulate you. Radio’s the greatest thing in the world.”
Marston, who had just taken down another message, turned to the group.
“Would one of you boys mind calling McDonald?” he said.
McDonald was the chief engineer of the ship, a dour, grizzled Scotchman, snappy and cranky, but one who knew his work and loved it. His engines were the apple of his eye, and while he was at work he talked and crooned to them as though they were his children.
“I’ll go,” said Joe, springing to his feet.
“Lucky if you get back without having your head snapped off,” laughed Bob.
In a short time, Joe returned, followed by the old engineer, puffing and grumbling.
“An’ wha’ is eet ye’re callin’ me up here for?” he demanded truculently.
“Listen, Mac,” said Marston, placatingly. “Here’s a captain of a ship that’s operated by a Diesel engine and he’s running out of Diesel oil.”
“Mair fule he,” growled McDonald. “Wha’s that my beesness?”