“What’s eatin’ on yer?” asked Mr. Quince, a trifle obscurely. “Yer know dern well you’re too blame lazy to shovel enough coal under the old wash biler to git her het up none before we git home.”
This struck Sim as reasonable. He changed the subject and inquired, “Where are we?”
A voice remarkably like that of Mr. Quince, although it could not have been that experienced river man, responded, “I dunno.”
Leaves rustled along the roof, and the skipper departed hurriedly for his post or, more accurately, his pole. For a time he wielded it energetically. The current was assisting the engine and so they moved fairly rapidly. The glow of South Ridgefield showed above the trees, and, with ever greater frequency, the lights of scattered houses gleamed upon either bank. They passed the suburbs. Upon either shore lay dark masses of manufacturing plants lighted by isolated electric lights. They were abreast of Obadiah Dale’s mill now, while a short block away stretched the ghostly fabric of the highway bridge, dimly traced by its own arch of lights. Beneath it was their landing place; so the mothers began to prepare to land and to thank Virginia for their pleasant day.
Mr. Quince, of course, was at his post. Resting himself upon his pole, he was enjoying that satisfaction over duty well performed which abides in the breasts of ships’ captains and locomotive engineers when they bring their passengers to a safe journey’s end.
Suddenly the bow of the Nancy Jane rose slowly and imperceptibly. There was a sizzling, grinding sound, and the boat stopped abruptly but softly as against a cushion, aground on a sand bar. As the craft struck there was a forward movement upon her deck, and a shifting of passengers and freight. A resounding splash sounded in front of the wrecked vessel. Mr. Quince, resting meditatively upon the pole, had been, sad to relate, hove over the bow of his own ship. At the moment of his departure he gave a diabolical yell.
A scene of terror ensued. Mothers sending forth wild screams hugged their babes to their bosoms as they faced the unknown perils of the night. They were not made calmer by a rhythmic heaving of the deck, accompanied by a mighty boiling and beating of the water astern, as the paddle wheel exerted itself against the sand bar. Perhaps Sim wished to emulate “Jim Bludso” of heroic fame, and, in the absence of his pilot, keep the engine going “to hold her nozzle agin the bank.”
With soothing and calming words, Kelly and Dr. Jackson finally brought a partial calm when panic seemed assured.
At the first alarm, Ike had leaped up from a box upon which he had been resting from the labors of the day. With rare presence of mind, Mr. Jones seized it for personal use as a life preserver in case of need. Reassured by the remoteness of danger, Ike endeavored to sit where no seat was, and, with a crash, measured his length upon the deck. This episode did not tend to allay the nervousness of female minds.
From the shadows of the night, a dripping figure scrambled over the bow of the ship. It was Mr. Quince returning from whence he had been hove. He reassumed command. “Stop the engine!” he squeaked, in a voice made husky by too much moisture. “Want to burn all the coal up for nothin’?” Obediently the engine slowed and stopped. Again the voice of the skipper sang out, “Better fix that old safety valve. I mought a shoved ’er too far in the dark.” Suddenly a tremendous hissing of steam arose and then died softly away. Mr. Quince hurried to the engine room and addressed Sim at close quarters. “Yer dern fool, what made yer let all the steam outer the biler. We hain’t got no power now. How’re we goin’ to git ’er off?”