He did not move even when he heard slow shuffling footsteps pass his cabin lazily. He contented himself to bellow out through the closed door—
“You—Jack!”
The footsteps came back without haste; the door handle rattled, and the second engineer appeared in the opening, shadowy in the sheen of the skylight at his back, with his face apparently as black as the rest of his figure.
“We have been very long coming up this time,” Mr. Massy growled, without changing his attitude.
“What do you expect with half the boiler tubes plugged up for leaks.” The second defended himself loquaciously.
“None of your lip,” said Massy.
“None of your rotten boilers—I say,” retorted his faithful subordinate without animation, huskily. “Go down there and carry a head of steam on them yourself—if you dare. I don’t.”
“You aren’t worth your salt then,” Massy said. The other made a faint noise which resembled a laugh but might have been a snarl.
“Better go slow than stop the ship altogether,” he admonished his admired superior. Mr. Massy moved at last. He turned in his chair, and grinding his teeth—
“Dam’ you and the ship! I wish she were at the bottom of the sea. Then you would have to starve.”