Chief Engineer McGovern sniffed the air, wrinkled his nose, and spat.
“Why d’ye keep the lead goin’, Skipper?” he demanded. “As I’ve told ye, I can gie ye a bearin’ on the bazaar by the smell, an’ likewise a reasonable accurate cross-bearin’ on the Sheik’s hareem.”
The Skipper waggled his beard and did not reply. He was leaning out of the sagging wheelhouse. He was hatless, and coatless, and collarless. His face expressed the ultimate of bitterness and dislike.
Chief Engineer McGovern closed his eyes.
“Eighty per centum o’ dried fish,” he pursued. “Assorted stenches, nineteen per cent. Sewage, three-quarters o’ one per cent. An’ attar o’ roses, one-eighth o’ one per cent. We are just passin’ the end o’ the jetty.”
He opened his eyes again to check up. He was correct within the limits of good navigation.
“It would ha’ worked,” said McGovern, and sighed. “But I suppose the Skipper knows best.”
Captain Grover turned and glared ferociously at the Arab steersman. The wheelman spun the wheel in haste and the Kingston heeled around in time to miss the clumsy stern of a two-hundred-ton bagala.
A hundred yards on, Captain Grover reached his hand to the engine room telegraph, but Chief Engineer McGovern had turned his head and now swore down the hole through which his head projected. The engines stopped. The Kingston drifted forward gently. The Skipper’s whiskers waggled. No man moved. The waggling became violent, and his expression of concentrated venom became more pronounced. A deep rumbling noise began deep down in his chest.