“Sist!” said the Yankee. “Pretend to oil the engines and keep busy. Don’t let the sentries suspect anything. Watch the steam. It’s going up to the bursting point.”
Micky watched the gage on the main steam leader. It started climbing from one hundred and seventy to one hundred and ninety. It went over the two hundred mark. It dropped and mounted again.
The little cockney skipper heard the fire doors clanging. A baleful light streamed past Red Landyard. A roar sounded in the single funnel. It was as if the ship were equipped with a double-fan forced draft. The cross-compound engine spun like a turbine.
“What’s ’e putting on the fires?” questioned Micky.
“The tea!”
“The what?”
“The boxes of tea in the forehold,” husked Red. “We broke through and looked the Bolshevik cargo over. It’s combustible all right.”
“TNT?”
“Nope! Look out! That sentry is cocking his gun. Duck aft. Don’t let him see you talking with me.”
Micky crawled down the narrow shaft-alley. He sat on the thrust block and searched his heated brain for an answer to Mike’s energy. Hours later he heard the scraping of rocks and shale under the Shongpong’s keel. The ship heeled and plunged on. Her bow crashed upon a shelving beach. The Bolsheviki cursed. A mast went by the board. It splintered the deck. The funnel fell with its load of soot. The engine-room filled with choking smoke.