“But you are simply pouring water into the ’tween decks,” said McBain; “you’re not even sure if it be reaching the fire.”
“I didn’t think of that,” said the poor confused mate. “But,” he continued, “there is worse to tell you!”
“Go on, and quickly!” cried McBain. “What is the worse?”
The mate’s reply was gasped out rather than spoken, and he turned as pale as death as he uttered the words.
“The magazine is not flooded, and it is close to where the fire is raging!”
The blood sprang to McBain’s cheek, the fire seemed to flash from his eye, as he brought his fist down with a ringing crash upon the hatchway, near which he stood.
“What sinful folly!” he cried. “Call for volunteers at once. Call for volunteers, I say, and flood your magazine, man!”
“Stay!” said the mate, now fully aroused, and regaining a little common sense—“stay! You little know my men; they are not picked Englishmen like yours, they are principally stevedores and fishermen. Did they know the magazine was not flooded it would be sauve qui peut. They’d take to the boats and leave the Trefoil to her fate. I have myself been down below, and had to be dragged up through the smoke, fainting. Besides, it needs two hands, and I’ve no one to trust.”
“But the danger is imminent; we may all be blown to pieces without a moment’s warning,” said McBain.
“See here, mate!”