An extraordinary spectacle presented itself to their eyes. In the blackness underneath, between the rows of boilers, were the stoking-pits, in which fourteen fires, each raging at a fierce white heat, glowed angrily like the red cavernous maws of legendary monsters. Through the open furnace doors issued a blinding light that only intensified the surrounding gloom. Standing about, recoiling from the withering heat, could be seen a dozen stalwart forms. Every now and then they advanced quickly to the furnace, to throw on fresh fuel or to rake the glowing coal, and in the vivid light they were seen to be human beings, but so begrimed and terrible of aspect as to be well-nigh unrecognizable as men. They were entirely naked from the waist up, and so covered with coal-dust from head to heel that they looked like negroes. Only the white circles around the bloodshot eyes and their straight hair betrayed the true color of their skins. They worked silently and resignedly, like men accursed, and doomed for some sin committed to everlasting toil and torment. Mere machines of flesh and sinew, they executed with the rapidity and expertness of long practise certain mechanical movements, their toughened muscles and iron frame standing the strain and heat with amazing endurance, sweat literally pouring off their faces and bodies in streams. At moments the heat became intolerable—the stoker himself caught fire. His skin began to blister, his hair started to smoke. He gave a shout, and a comrade quickly emptied a bucket of water over him, throwing off a cloud of steam. Thus temporarily relieved, he set to his devilish task again. It was the hardest kind of labor known to man, but, like the ancient stoics, the stokers gave no sign of their suffering. They toiled uncomplainingly in grim silence, as if resigned to accept this degraded, painful occupation as their proper lot in life. They worked on and on until gradually even their great strength gave out. Overcome by the appalling heat, suffocating from lack of fresh air, one by one they were forced to fall back and give place to fresher men.
The daintily gowned, carefully groomed passengers from the first cabin watched them, fascinated. It was difficult for Grace, who had seen nothing but plenty around her since she came into the world, to understand that there were human beings so miserably poor, so low down in the social scale that they had to earn their bread in this way. The literalness of the saying "making a living by the sweat of one's brow" dawned upon her for the first time. She was shocked, and then she felt sorry—sorry that any human being should be so degraded. A sense of guilt came over her, as if she realized that the luxuries her class loved and exacted were responsible for this degradation, this suffering.
She wondered where the refractory fireman was, and presently she perceived him, emerging from the gloom, approaching the roaring furnace, steel rod in hand, to rake the fiery coal, covering his face with his unemployed hand to ward off the blistering heat. He was easily recognizable in spite of his forbidding, ghoulish aspect, towering as he did several inches above his comrades. Built like a Hercules, he had a torso that would have given joy to the great Praxiteles himself. His lines were academic, the muscles on his massive yet admirably molded shoulders and arms stood out like whip-cords, and as he stood before the open fire, working the steel rod in and out, one leg thrust forward, the rest of the body thrown backward to avoid the heat, his pose recalled one of David's Latin warriors about to let fly a javelin at the enemy.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Fitzhugh. "There's the chap who made such a fuss when we sailed."
"Yes, that's the fellow!" said the chief engineer. "He's going his 'shift' readily enough now, but we've had a hard time with him. He had to be driven to work like a dog. He's a surly brute and always ready for a fight. You'd better not attract his attention."
So far, the stokers had not noticed the visitors' presence, but Mr. Fitzhugh's exclamation made them look up. One of the firemen laughed, and said something in an undertone to a comrade, whereupon the man grinned, and, turning to the others, pointed to the Hon. Percy, who, with his monocle, his green Tyrolian hat and white spats, looked comical enough to excite derision. The jeers attracted the attention of Armitage, who dropped back from the furnace he was cleaning out and glared up at the intruders. He clenched his fist and ground his teeth as he saw these perfumed, pampered passengers watching them as they might view wild animals in a cage. It made his blood boil to see their clean skins, their fine clothes. No doubt, they had not done a day's honest work in their lives. That animated monkey with the monocle and white spats, and those dainty dolls in laces and jewels, came simply from idle curiosity, to gibe at their dirty, miserable appearance, to mock at their sufferings. The thought maddened him. In a frenzy of rage, he shook his fist in the direction of the little gallery where Grace and her party stood.
"Get out of here!" he shouted furiously. "We don't want you! This isn't a circus! Get out—do you hear?"
He stooped quickly, and, picking up a heavy piece of coal, lifted his arm as if about to hurl it in their direction. Grace, frightened, recoiled, and her companions also shrank back. Mr. Fitzhugh and the professor had already bolted up the spiral stairway. The chief engineer said quietly to Grace:
"You'd better go. There's no telling how he might excite the other men. I regret very much that you should have been subjected to his insults. He's half-crazy. Leave me to deal with him!"
Shaking his fist at the fireman, he shouted: