“Yes, in the spare boiler.”
Mr. S. V. Fergerson tapped a pipe on his heel.
“I made an inspection, myself, of that, not later than yesterday forenoon. She was tight as a drum an’ free from scale. I left th’ man-hole—”
“Damn badly gasketed!” growled Richter.
Ferguson started to explain something; but the chief was in a hurry to get away from sight of the Seriphus. There was a memory on the tanker that required a drink or two in order to bring forgetfulness. Richter gave the Scot an order that admitted of no answering back.
“Go aboard an’ blow off steam! That boiler’s all right!”
A roar, when Richter strode past the dry-dock’s sheds, caused him to wheel around and listen. Ferguson, according to orders, was blowing off the steam from the spare boiler.
Something, perhaps water or waste, clogged the pipe; and the escaping vapor whistled; sputtered, and rose to a high piercing note that sounded to the chief’s irritated nerves like the cry of a soul in agony. The note died, resumed its piercing screeching. Richter’s arm and hand shook when he mopped his brow and drew a wet sleeve down with an angry motion.
In fancy the noise that came from the Seriphus’ starboard side, echoed and deflated by the hollow dock, was Gathright calling for Hylda. Richter covered his ears and staggered away.