For, at the moment that the bluff bows of the steamer, rounding the point and keeping to the channel, straightened out to lay a course to Execution Rocks, then it was that Stevens edged our course sharply to port.
This, in turn, he followed by a frantic pawing of the wheel’s spoke to starboard. It was some of the finest acting I had ever seen; and no one in the world would have suspected him of being other than a distinctly panic-stricken helmsman whose steering gear had suddenly gone all to pot.
And it really was dangerous. I can still see that black wall of steel plates towering above us; for he had actually had the nerve to whirl the launch within ten feet of the steamer.
In the glance I shot up to the vessel’s rail, I could see the frightened eyes of several passengers; and, above them, in the farther distance of the bridge, an officer was fingering a bell pull hesitatingly.
Whether the owner saw his indecision, I don’t know, but his action seemed to point to that effect; for he suddenly grabbed our whistle cord, and sent shriek after shriek in a perfect panic of nervousness. And all this time Stevens was clawing the wheel. Then suddenly he gave me “full speed astern.” It was enough to wrench the gears’ bearings apart; but I swung her to it. And we groaned and churned astern.
Then it was that the officer on the bridge did signal his engine room, and he sang out in clear bass:
“What’s the trouble? Can’t you work clear of me?”
I could well understand the disgust that was only slightly veiled; for yachtsmen certainly are a nuisance to the professional seaman, especially the new-fledged power boatmen.
But it was an imperative tone that met him.
“The steering gear’s clean gone!” bellowed Stevens, in a volume I could never have credited to his diminutive frame. “Drop us a ladder.”