And if the tedious hours got on the nerves of the soldiers who had their health and strength, how much more so did they get on the nerves of the wounded in the hospital wards? So over-wrought were some of the casuals that it was necessary to organize squads of the sound men to visit in relays and cheer up their unfortunate comrades.
This worked well, and it not only brightened the wounded, but it gave the unoccupied well lads a chance to do something to vary the monotony.
This, what might be termed a crisis, occurred after it became known that the engines had broken down for the second time. This news had brought a reaction to the sick and wounded.
Meanwhile the men were working hard to get the sails rigged; but finally this was accomplished. It was a makeshift, to be sure, but every one was thankful even for that.
And then, as if Fate was determined to make a plaything of the troopship and desired to show what she could do when she tried, there came a dead calm. There had been a fairly good wind all the while the men were rigging the sails, and it was thought, with the expanse of canvas spread to the breeze, that progress could be made—perhaps enough even to bring the ship back to port, or at least in the path of some other craft.
But no sooner had the last rope been made fast and word given to bring the ship around, with the wind as near astern as would serve the purpose, than every breath of air died out.
“Dead calm!” muttered one of the sailors. “Dead as a mackerel!”
“Well, what’s to be done?” asked Bob, when it became evident that the transport could only drift helplessly about.
“Whistle for a breeze!” some one suggested.