Next the bales of hemp were trucked to the hatchway and hoisted, one by one, to the deck. Eagerly the revenue officer attacked them, cutting bands, tearing out handfuls of the long, dry fibres, and probing in the hearts of the bales. Soon the deck was littered with loose hemp fibres and wads of cotton, that the stiff breeze blew about in little clouds. Bale after bale was torn open, but though he searched every bale, the revenue officer found no smuggled whiskey. In great mortification he apologized to the captain for his interference with loading operations. Roy was surprised at the captain’s reply.
“You were merely doing your duty,” he said, “and no apologies are necessary. Have a cigar—a real Havana—sent me by my brother—and not smuggled, sir.” And the captain opened his cigar case and extended it to his visitor.
“Well, wouldn’t that jar you?” said Roy to himself. “I expected to see some fireworks and here he hands the revenue man a good cigar. I noticed one thing. He said it was all right because the man was doing his duty. Maybe there’s hope for me after all.”
The revenue officer went away. Captain Lansford ordered the cargo stowed again and went to his quarters. Mr. Young took charge, and soon the roustabouts were putting the ship to rights again. Roy lingered to watch them.
First of all the hemp bales had to go back in place. Cords were brought and the bales tied up in the best way possible. But it was not practicable to replace the torn-out fibres. One by one the hemp bales were lowered into the hold. The cotton bales followed. Roy noticed that when these great quarter-ton packages rose above the deck they climbed aloft jerkily and he saw that the belt on the donkey-engine was slipping badly. For several minutes he watched, then walked over to the donkey-engine to see what was wrong. Cotton bales were piled all about and he had to edge his way between them and the whirling belt. Suddenly the wind lifted his hat. He grabbed for it, then jumped back as though he had been jabbed with a pin.
“I must have been scraped by the moving belt,” thought Roy. But a second later he muttered, “Why, a belt couldn’t have felt like that through my clothes! Wonder what it was.”
Curious, he again pressed close to the belt and again something stung him.
“Electricity,” thought Roy. “That slipping belt is generating electricity.”
Then he thought of the cotton. A glance showed him a ragged bale with a metal strap broken in two places, and one jagged end swaying close to the moving belt. Across the bale, and lying fairly on the broken metal band, rested a chain that had been flung there to clear the deck. Its lower end dangled across the metal frame of the hatchway. The thought of fire flashed through Roy’s head. A spark leaping to the broken band as it had leaped to his body, might ignite the ragged bale. The litter of cotton and hemp fibre, swirling in the wind and falling through the hatchway, would carry the flames like tinder to the heart of the ship.
“Mr. Young,” shouted Roy. “Get that bale away quick!”