"But you say the men who do the actual work get the worst of things."
"Yes—I think so. Firemen are the feet of the ship, you know."
"I think I was all feet last night," he replied, smiling dolefully. "I have heard professors rant about the dignity of labor," he replied, arising with the empty pan, having enjoyed the first full meal he had ever actually earned. "However, I have signed for a round trip and I'm going to stick if it kills me," he added, half to himself, as he went below.
When he came on watch at four the fire of adventure had taken the place of Hiram Strong's glassy stare of debauchery. He cleaned and shook his grates without coaching, heaving the coal well back in the fire-box. I knew that every bone and muscle of his body was crying out in protest. Later I saw blood from the blisters show through the cotton gloves, but he worked stolidly, silent and grim. Surely he was game.
We were getting farther south, the wind coming hot and the boiler-room an inferno. As Strong worked he perspired to the point of melting. I saw him grit his teeth, determined not to show another white feather, and when we were washing up at the end of that four-hour watch, there was something of unction in his remark, to himself: "Thank God, it didn't get me this time!" Sensibly he went to his bunk without eating.
CHAPTER III
Our shift was off at eight p. m. with duty ahead at four o'clock in the morning. But not feeling disposed to sleep just then, I began to study our position. Twenty-four hours ago we had cleared Scotland lightship, and I figured we were something like three hundred miles south of New York, off the Virginia capes.
The ship, as on the previous night, was wrapped in complete darkness as we emerged from the boiler-room, and I could just make out the shadowy form of the officer on the bridge, who moved about nervously. I glanced across the expanse of water but no light could be seen in any direction. The only activity was the sounding lead which was thrown overboard occasionally.