He gave up the puzzle at last, and visited Florrie, finding her dressed, swathed in the bandage, and sitting in the outer apartment, reading. Briefly he explained the occurrences on deck, and, as all was quiet now, asked her to step up and investigate. She did so, and returned.
"Forsythe is steering," she said, "and two or three are awake, but staggering around, and several others are asleep on the deck."
"Well," he said, hopefully, "Forsythe evidently can control himself, but not the others. If they remain drunk, or get drunker, I mean to do something to-night. No use trying now."
"What will you do, Billie?" she asked, with concern in her voice.
"I don't know. I'll only know when I get at it. I hope that Forsythe will load up, too. Hello! What's up? Run up, Florrie, and look."
The engine had stopped, and Forsythe's furious invective could be heard. Florrie ran up the steps, peeped out, and returned.
"He is swearing at some one," she said.
"So it seems," said Denman. "Let me have a look."
He ascended, and carefully peeped over the companion hood. Forsythe was looking down the engine-room hatch, and his voice came clear and distinct as he anathematized the engineers below.
"Shut off your oil, you drunken mutts," he vociferated. "If the whole four of you can't keep steam on the steering-gear, shut it off—all of it, I say. Shut off every burner and get into your bunks till you're sober."