Again the ship's company resumed their labours. It was now daybreak. The rain still fell, unheeded by the enthusiastic toilers. The only people who minded the horrible climatic conditions were the band, who, to keep up the spirits of the coaling party, were discussing lively airs in which rag-time predominated.
Suddenly an engine-room artificer working the main derrick hoist gave vent to an oath. "Here, one of you; bear a hand," he claimed. "I've nipped my fingers."
Without a word Stoker Jorkler relieved the luckless man at the steam winch. The E.R.A., with two fingers crushed to a pulp, hurried away to the sick-bay; while Jorkler, whose knowledge of machinery and of winches in particular was far from perfect, remained in control of the hoisting gear. He, of the whole of the ship's company, didn't exactly see why he should break his back over sacks of coal when he could take on the comparatively light job of running the steam hoist.
"Avast heaving there on the main derrick!" shouted Sub-lieutenant Tressidar, whose quick eye had noticed that something had gone wrong aloft.
Jorkler obeyed promptly, shutting off steam and applying the band-brake. A hundred pairs of eyes followed the direction of the sub's outstretched hand. The wire hawser had "jumped" the sheave at the end of the derrick that, projecting at an angle of forty-five degrees, terminated fifty feet or more above the deck of the lighter.
"Up aloft, one of you," continued Tressidar, addressing the men whose operations had perforce to be suspended.
But before the order could be carried out a man working in the lighter gripped the wire rope, shouting for the winch to be put in motion.
Dangling at the end of the rope as he rose swiftly into the air was a burly figure rigged out in grimy canvas. With his teeth gleaming in contrast to his black face and with a dash of colour imparted by the scarlet handkerchief bound round his head, the volunteer for the dangerous service cut a picturesque figure.
Stoker Jorkler gave an involuntary start. He recognised the man as Leading Stoker Smith, the petty officer whose insistence had given him such a bad turn. For a few seconds he thought—and thought hard.
The winch was still in motion. Higher and higher rose the petty officer until his head was almost level with the huge metal block at the end of the derrick.