The grimy crew of the stokehold, the “black watch,” refused to face the trembling boilers any longer. They feared that at any moment the steel plates would yield under the terrific pressure and annihilate them and the ship. The chief engineer, unable to keep them at their work, even at the pistol’s point, sought Jarrold, while the stokers spread a mutinous spirit throughout the yacht.
Jarrold was bending over a chart in the pilot house when the engineer found him.
“You are crawling like a snail,” he snarled; “more speed.”
“The men have quit,” said the engineer quietly to the half-crazed man. “They are afraid to work below. The boilers may burst any moment.”
“I don’t care about that. We must reach the coast before to-morrow morning. It must be done. My life hangs on it.”
“I can’t help that. The men won’t work,” protested the engineer; “they’ve thrown down their shovels and gone forward. I’d advise you to give in to them; they are in a dangerous mood.”
Jarrold sprang to his feet with a snarl. He reached into a drawer and drew out a magazine revolver.
“The mutinous dogs! I’ll drive them back to their fires with this,” he rasped out, rushing from the bridge.
“Don’t do anything rash,” implored the engineer, who knew how things stood. “The rest of the crew are with them and we’ll have a general mutiny on our hands if you precipitate trouble.”
The only answer was a roar of rage from the hunted man, about whom Uncle Sam was weaving a fine-meshed wireless net.