Figger skipped to the water-gage and grinned triumphantly.
“She’s all right,” he yelped. “Is you keepin’ yo’ eye on dat ole steam-gage?”
Skeeter was.
In fact, he was gazing at that steam-gage with hypnotic fascination. He swallowed a succession of Adam’s apples like a string of smoked sausages before he could speak.
Skeeter knew precious little about machinery. Pipe Smash’s solemn and impressive warning about the steam-gage of the Mud Hen had scared him. His experience on the river with the two big boats had fortunately not upset the Mud Hen, but it had considerably upset Skeeter’s mind and his judgment. What Skeeter thought he saw that steam-gage doing is a mechanical impossibility, but his announcement had a startling effect.
“Come here, fellers, an’ look at dis steam-gage!” he wailed. “Dat indicator is done gone plum’ aroun’ de face of dat clock five times an’—she’s—gwine—aroun’—again!”
“My Gawd!” Vinegar Atts whooped. “Dis Mud Hen is gittin’ ready to bust! Jump! Jump fer yo’ lives!”
Four negroes went over the side into the middle of the river.
The Mud Hen, paddling busily, kept to the current and moved serenely down the river.
Then, while the four frightened negroes got the shore, frog-fashion, Pipe Smash climbed out from his hiding place in front of the engine, and laid his experienced hand upon the pilot-wheel of the Mud Hen.