“Well, you see,” explained Marston, “he’ll have to stop his voyage to re-fuel, and at the nearest port he can get only heavy oil. He’s never used that kind before, and he wants to know what the effect will be on his engines. He——”
Here the choleric old engineer exploded, and the air was blue for a while as he stamped around and roared about the “fule cap’n” that ought to be sailing toy boats in a bathtub instead of commanding ships on the high seas. Marston let him rave until his wrath and scorn had subsided, and then returned to the attack.
“Oh, come along, Mac, and be a good fellow,” he urged. “The man’s in a fix, and he needs advice. No doubt he’s a fool and all that, but you can’t expect him to know all that you do about engines. Who does, for that matter? There’s only one McDonald,” he concluded, with a side wink at the boys.
That the “salve,” though rather crudely laid on, was not without effect was shown by the final consent of the old fellow to give the necessary information, though only on condition that Marston should give it in his exact words. As these, however, involved a number of uncomplimentary references to the “blitherin’ fule” that needed to ask such questions, it is needless to say that Marston toned it down to the proper extent, and finally with a last blast against “tin sailors,” McDonald clumped out of the room and down again to his beloved engines.
“This seems to be a regular clearing house for information of one kind or another,” commented Bob, after they had had a good laugh at McDonald’s expense.
“That’s what it is,” agreed Johnson, looking up from his instrument. “You’d be astonished and often amused at the multitude of all kinds of questions that are hurled at us. Most of them are sensible, and we are able to be of real service. But the loneliness of the sea is a thing of the past—that is, to all vessels equipped with wireless, and most of them are nowadays.”
“You said that this was a busy place, and now we know it is,” remarked Joe.
“Yes. And yet you have heard tonight only the side issues, as it were,” was the reply. “We have to be on duty here every minute of the twenty-four hours of the day, working, of course, in different shifts. Our first duty is to comb the seas that are likely to be strewn with icebergs, steaming along on a zigzag, a rectangular or triangular course, as conditions may require. The moment a berg is discovered, we have to find out all about it, measure it, chart it, photograph it, and send out warnings as to its exact position.”
“That alone would seem to be enough to take up all your time,” said Jimmy.
“It takes a good deal of it,” returned Johnson. “When the night is dark and stormy, we have to keep the searchlight playing on the berg all night, so that it won’t be lost sight of. When a vessel enters the dangerous area, we have to keep her successive positions plotted on the map, so that we’ll always know where she is until she passes again out of the zone. Once a day, we have to send in the day’s report to the Hydrographic Office in Washington. Then, twice a day, we’re required to send in a meteorological report to the Weather Bureau. Oh, take it from me, we don’t have a chance to get rusty on this job.”