“Yes; but what a fearful noise!—and you have made me so wet.”
“How are you getting on?” shouted Mr Frewen. “That’s right.”
I could not see him for the steam; but his voice came from the other side of the deck, and I must have altered the direction of the jet a little, for a fresh series of explosions arose to prove how much more serious the hidden fire was than we could judge it to be from what was visible.
Crick, crack, sputter, and then report after report, as loud as those made by a revolver, while each steam-shot was followed by a ball of white vapour which came rushing up as from the mouth of a gun.
“Hurrah!” came from by the pump again, and Mr Preddle came slowly along to pass me and get forward.
“I suppose I can get by you,” he said.
“No, no; don’t try it,” I cried excitedly. “I must not stir, and there is so little room. Go back and round with Mr Frewen.”
“No, no; I daren’t.”
“The fire isn’t there,” I said, as the screaming and hissing were louder than ever.
“I’m not so much afraid of the fire as I am of the water,” cried Mr Preddle. “You want to squirt me again.”