Cole, a rattling good bosun if I ever saw one, needed nothing further.
“Aye, aye, sor. Lave ut to Jack!” In a moment he had that Russian, the Swede, and the two Chinamen round the barrel, emptying it; in another second they were rolling it aft; and as I started down the ladder to the fireroom, Cole had the barrel on end again and already was expertly throwing a couple of half hitches in a manila line round it to serve as a sling.
Almost before I got down the ladder to my fireroom again, the barrel came tumbling down the hatch at the end of a fall and landed alongside me with a splash, while above, Cole roared out,
“Below there! She’s all yours! Fill ’er up!”
Being nearest, I tipped the barrel sidewise in the water, pushed it down till it submerged, then righted it. It filled with a gurgle, settled through the slush to the floor plates.
“Full up!” I shouted. “Take it away!”
“Aye, aye!” The line to the barrel tautened, then started slowly to rise. Down the hatch floated Cole’s voice, encouraging his squad on the hoisting line,
“Lay back wid yez, Rooshian! Heave on it, ye Swede! An’ git those pigtails flyin’ in the breeze, ye two Chinks, or we’ll all be knockin’ soon at the Pearly Gates, an’ fer sailor min the likes of us, wid damned little chanct to get past St. Peter! Lively wid yez; all togither now. Heave!”
The loaded barrel suddenly shot up the hatch.
Hurriedly Cole swung it over to the low side scuppers, dumped it, and sent it clattering down again. Once more I filled it, started it up, then called Lee, my machinist, from the engine room pump to stand by on that filling job while I went back to the all-important boiler.