He tried the coffee again. He added reflectively:
"That trick—it didn't explode the ship-fuel, in a way. It burned it. In water. It applied the energy of the fuel to the boiling-away of water. Powerful stuff! We got rid of two feet of water on an average, counting what came out of the mud. It cost ... hm-m-m ... a fraction of a gram per square yard."
He gulped the coffee down. There were men looking at him solicitously. They seemed very glad to see him awake again. There was a monstrous bank of cloud-stuff piling up in the sky. He suddenly blinked at that.
"Hello! How long did I sleep, Barnes?"
Barnes told him. Hardwick shook his head to clear it.
"We'll go see Sandringham," said Hardwick, heavily. "I'd like to postpone firing as long as I can, short of having the stuff start draining into the sea to leeward."
There were mud-stained men around the place where Hardwick had slept. When he went—still groggy—out to the bolster-truck young Barnes had waiting, they regarded Hardwick in a very satisfying manner. Somebody grunted, "Good to've worked with you, sir,"—which is about as much of admiration as anybody would want to hear expressed. These associates of Hardwick in the mopping-up of leaked ship's fuel would be able to brag of the job at all times and in all places hereafter.
Then the truck went trundling away in search of Sandringham.
It found him on the cliffs to the windward side of the island. The sea was no longer a cerulean blue. It was slaty-color. There were occasional flecks of white foam on the water four thousand feet below. There were dark clouds, by then covering practically all the sky. Far out to sea, there were small craft heading grimly for the ends of the island, to go around it and ride out the coming storm in its lee.