“Well, we made it, Stevens,” I heard him say.
Then he called his own bluff at being the gentleman, for he lighted a cigarette, drawing his match across a polished mahogany panel of the wheelhouse. I could see the little skipper fairly writhe. He had my sympathy; for, owner or no owner, right is right.
“New rich, and thinks he’s the real thing,” I muttered to myself, little realizing how soon I was to assume another rôle.
With but a moment’s delay, the girl reached a seat on a transom of the midship half cabin; and, just before joining her, the man drew out a handsomely jeweled watch.
“No time to spare, eh, Stevens?” he inquired, a bit anxiously, I thought.
Stevens deftly cast off the moorings and took his position at the wheel.
“I’ll get there,” said he, as he jangled the bell for “ahead.”
The lumbering engineer leisurely grasped the starting lever and drew her up to compression. The coil buzzed viciously, but no cough told of explosion.
His surprise was a fine imitation of the genuine as he cranked once more, but without result. The engine lay dead. Then I saw a sharp look of dismay flash across the features of the man I reckoned to be the owner.
“What’s the matter?” he snapped, in a tone far removed from his former easy one.