"Now for the tug-of-war," said Ned grimly, as, warning the man at the wheel to keep his helm hard over, he sent the signal below for the engines to be started at reverse "slow."
Once more the vibration of her machinery thrilled the hull of the Seneca; but—she did not move.
Undisturbed, so far as anyone could see, Ned shoved the telegraph over till little by little the pointer stopped at "Full speed astern." He rang up on the bridge telephone.
"Give her every ounce you've got," he ordered.
The water churned whitely; the pipes of the safety valves roared with the pressure of the escaping steam from the high-pressure boilers. The Seneca shook and trembled like a live thing. Then came a sudden impulse. Ned's eyes began to dance, but he dared not speak.
The next instant he knew that he had not been mistaken. The Seneca was moving.
A cheer burst from the men, who knew that Ned had risen from the foredeck, and liked and admired him on that account. Nobody attempted to check it. Below, in his cabin, Kenworth heard the cheer and felt the slight movement.
"Confound him! So he has managed to get her afloat, after all," he muttered. "I didn't pile her up quick enough. Well, I'll get another chance, and this time I won't fall down."
Little by little the bulk of the gunboat began to slide backward off the shoal.