The next minute Dan, in all the delight of the struggle, was making his way along the lower deck to the engine-room door. The water was racing past the rail like a wet blur and the deck sloshed ankle deep. High up a wave climbed the Fledgling, and as she paused on the top for a downward glide, Dan hastily opened the door and clambered down the iron ladder.
"Well, Sam, how are they working?" he shouted to Crampton, the chief, bending over a fizzing valve bonnet.
Sam rose, pushed back his oily peaked cap until the straight raven hair flowed out from under like a cataract, and gave his thin, waterfall moustache a twist, while his swarthy, parchment face cracked into a hundred smiles.
"Workin'," he said, "as sweet as a babe breathin'."
Up reared the stern, lifting the propeller clear of the water. The engines expending their force in air, raced free. The clatter was infernal; the pistons seemed trying to jump out of the cylinders, while the throws and eccentrics lost all semblance of good order.
"Oh, damn!" cried Sam, who, being hurled to the iron floor, swore as though he enjoyed it.
Whitey Welch, the fireman, burst into a huge guffaw, in which Sam finally joined.
"You're all right down here," laughed Dan, "as happy as a sewing circle! There may be some pulling to do later."
"You get something to pull; we'll tend to the rest," and Sam Crampton grinned.
Emerging on deck, Dan collided with Pete Noonan, the deck-hand, with shoulders as big as Dan's and a bigger chest. Pete smiled genially.