In the unnatural peacefulness of the ship’s progress, disturbed only by the roar of the superheated vapor, they all heard the opening of a door at the head of the saloon stairway. The third officer appeared—his wet oilskins gleaming and dripping.
“Dr. Christobal, the captain wishes to speak to you,” he said.
Christobal rose and crossed the saloon.
“As you are here, won’t you tell the ladies there is nothing to be afraid of in the mere stopping of the engines?” he suggested.
“Oh, the ship is right enough,” was the hasty response. “There has been an accident in the stokehold. That is all.”
“Want any help?” demanded the American.
“Well—I’ll ask the captain.”
Evidently anxious to avoid further questioning, he ran up the companion. Christobal followed, the door was closed and bolted again.
“I hate the word ‘accident.’ It covers so many horrid possibilities,” said Isobel.
“I am afraid some poor fellows have been injured, and that is why Captain Courtenay sent for Dr. Christobal,” said Elsie.