“What the blazes are you doing in here?” shouted the captain, abating no little of his natural politeness. “Sure, the steamer is making only eight knots an hour by the last log; and the schooners will bate us out at this rate.”
“We are making but thirty-eight revolutions a minute; and eight miles is all that can be expected,” replied the assistant engineer.
“Well, what’s the matter with her?” demanded O’Hara, not a little excited.
“I can’t get steam enough to do any better,” replied Richards rather doggedly, for he did not like the manner in which the captain had spoken to him.
“Can’t you get all the steam you want?” asked O’Hara, in a more moderate tone; for he began to see that his manner was a little too arbitrary.
“I have called down into the fire-room twenty times for more steam, and I have been down myself; but I don’t seem to make myself understood,” replied Richards in a more affable tone, corresponding to that of the captain.
“Those blackguards of firemen are not doing their duty!” exclaimed O’Hara, rushing down to the fire-room, believing the difficulty was altogether in the matter of language.
He spoke to the Italian in his own language; and the fellow shrugged his shoulders, and looked insolent, though he said nothing to which exception could be taken.
“Fill up your furnaces!” shouted the captain, repeating the words in French for the benefit of the ones who did not understand Italian. “We are making but eight knots an hour; and we shall lose the rest of the fleet at this rate!”
The men heaved in a few shovels of coal; and O’Hara, believing he had said and done all that was necessary, left the fire-room. He went upon the poop-deck, where he found Tom Speers; and both of them gazed out into the dense fog, and listened for any sounds that might indicate the situation of the rest of the fleet.