“I’ve been watching that log since lunch, and she’s doing very badly,” he said, indicating the dial of a brass instrument on the taffrail. “There’s hardly sea enough to account for it, and they seem to be firing up.”
“Saltom is having some trouble with his condenser,” Aynsley explained. “As you’re anxious to get on, he didn’t want to stop, but the vacuum’s falling.”
“Then I’ll go down and see him; but I’m not an engineer, so you’d better come along.”
They climbed down a greasy iron ladder, and found a man in overalls kneeling beside a big iron casting in the bottom of the engine room. Near by piston-rod and connecting-rod flashed with a silvery glimmer between the throbbing cylinders and the whirling cranks that flung a shower of oil about, and floor-plates and frames vibrated in time to the rhythmic clangor. The engineer held an open lamp, its pale flame flickering to and fro as the vessel rolled, while he watched the index of the vacuum gage.
“You have lost half an inch since I was down,” said Aynsley, stooping beside him.
“She’s surely worrying me,” replied the engineer. “I’ll have to let up on feeding from the hot-well before long, and we haven’t too much fresh water.”
“Are you satisfied it’s not the air-pumps?”
“Can’t see anything wrong with them. I suspect there’s something jambing the main inlet-valve, and the tubes may be foul, though those I took out last season were clean.”
“Why didn’t you scrap the blamed condenser if you doubted it?” Clay broke in. “I haven’t cut your bills, and this boat has got to go when I want her.”
His tone was sharp, and the man looked up with a start.