Before Sanford could soothe the warlike spirit of his champion, the steward of the tender again appeared, and, touching his cap, said the committee wished to see Mr. Sanford.
The young engineer excused himself to those about him and followed the steward, Mrs. Leroy looking after him with a glance of anxiety as he crossed the deck of the Screamer,—an anxiety which Sanford tried to relieve by an encouraging wave of his hand.
As Sanford entered the saloon Carleton was just leaving it, hat in hand. He did not raise his eyes. His face was blue-white. Little flecks of saliva were sticking in the corners of his mouth, as if his breath were dry.
General Barton sat at the head of the saloon table. The other members of the Board were seated below him.
“Mr. Sanford,” said the general, “we have investigated the differences between yourself and the superintendent with the following result: First, the committee has accepted the work as it stands, believing in the truthfulness of yourself and your men, confirmed by a record which it could not doubt. Second, the withheld certificate will be signed and checks forwarded to you as soon as the necessary papers can be prepared. Third, Superintendent Carleton has been relieved from duty at Shark Ledge Light.”
CHAPTER XXII—AFTER THE BATTLE
Carleton’s downfall was known all over the Ledge and on board every boat that lay at its wharf long before either he or Sanford regained the open air. The means of communication was that same old silent current that requires neither pole nor battery to put it into working order. Within thirty seconds of the time the ominous words fell from the general’s lips, the single word “Dennis,” the universal sobriquet for a discharged man our working world over, was in every man’s mouth. Whatever medium was used, the meaning was none the less clear and unmistakable. The steward may have winked to the captain in the pilothouse, or the cook shrugged his shoulders, opening his mouth with the gasping motion of a strangling chicken, and so conveyed the news to the forecastle; or one of the crew, with ears wide open, might have found it necessary to uncoil a rope outside the cabin window at the precise moment the general gave his decision, and have instantly passed the news along to his nearest mate. Of one thing there was no doubt: Carleton had given his last order on Shark Ledge.
An animated discussion followed among the men.
“Ought to give him six months,” blurted out Captain Bob Brandt, whose limited experience of government inspecting boards led him to believe that its officers were clothed with certain judicial powers. “Hadn’t ’a’ been for old Hamfats” (Nickles’s nickname) “an’ his pantry door, he’d ’a’ swore Cap’n Joe’s character away.”
“Well, I’m kind’er sorry for him, anyway,” said Captain Joe, not noticing the skipper’s humorous allusion. “Poor critter, he ain’t real responsible. What’s he goin’ to do fur a livin’, now that the gov’ment ain’t a-goin’ to support him no more?”