"How much you want—take me to Victoria?" he gasped.
"One hundred dollars," said Jimmy dryly.
The passenger expostulated in a half-coherent fashion, and then, apparently realizing that it was useless, fumbled for his wallet. He clenched his fist when he could not find it.
"Stole it—and my tin case," he said. "Ate up all my samples—must have ate the case, too, the—hungry hogs."
"Then you'll have to work your passage;" and Jimmy turned to Fleming. "You'll take care he earns it. Don't quite kill the man."
Barbison, who seemed to understand this, at last got on his feet and unloosed a flood of invective which had no effect on any of his listeners. Several deck-hands were, however, needed before he was conveyed into the stokehold and left in front of a bunker with a shovel in his hand. He assured Fleming that nothing would induce him to work, and the engineer only grinned, because it was a long way to Victoria, and the Shasta had several calls to make. Barbison seemed to fancy that his firmness had proved sufficient, and, coiling himself up amidst the coal, once more went to sleep. He awakened hungry, and Fleming smiled again when he demanded food.
"If you'll lift those floor-plates you'll see the spaces between her frames choked with coal-grit and grease," he said. "It's possible you'll get some breakfast when you've scraped them clean. Then it will depend on how much coal you trim out of that bunker whether you get any dinner."
Barbison looked hard at the man, and saw he meant what he said. Then he pulled up a floor-plate and looked at the filthy mass of coagulated grease that had drained from the engine-room.
"And how'm I to get it out?" he asked.
"Quite easy," said Fleming dryly. "What's the matter with your hands?"