“It’s too beastly hot for tinkering over engines,” yawned George, “and B. C. says he can’t get the thing to go.”
“Go’n’ have another try, B. C.,” said Hank. “There’s no use in us sitting here wagging our tails and waiting for the wind. Tell you what, I’ll draw lots with you—give’s a piece of paper, Bud.”
George produced an old letter and Hank tore off three slips, one long and two short.
Candon, with little interest in the business, drew a short slip, George the long one.
“It’s me,” said George rising. “Well now, I’ll just tell you, if I don’t get the thing to revolute I’ll stick there till I do. I’m not going to be beat by a bit of machinery.” He moved towards the hatch.
“I’ll go with you,” said Tommie, suddenly dog’s-earing a page and closing her book, as though she had been listening to the whole conversation, which, in a way, she had.
Hank and Candon were left alone and Candon took his seat in the chair vacated by George. Neither seemed in good humour; perhaps it was the heat.
From down below, through the open hatch leading to the little engine room, they could hear voices! George’s voice and the voice of T. C.
Then, as they sat yawning, another sound came, faint and far away, rhythmical, ghostly.
Hank raised himself and looked. Away to the s’uth’ard, across the glassy sea, a freighter was coming up. She was a great distance off, but in the absolute stillness and across that glacial calm the thud of her propellers could be felt by the ear.