"Directly—no; indirectly—yes," was the reply. "They don't post guards in the engine-room, which is a blessing; but they are continually calling for more revolutions. Perhaps they imagine we're a South American republic—how's that for a joke, Branscombe?"
"Feeble," was the reply, "but get on with it."
"There's nothing much to get on with," continued the Second Engineer. "There was a talk of tinkering with the high-pressure slide-valves and stopping the engines, only Angus said that, if the Donibristle did break down, the cruiser would doubtless remove the prize crew and send her to the bottom—and us as well. So that didn't come off. But, I say, who's eating chocolate?"
"No one," replied Alwyn.
"You're wrong, old son," he replied presently, "or perhaps I ought to say 'Mr. Burgoyne' now? Fact remains, I smell chocolate. The air's stiff with it."
"Hanged if I can whiff it," exclaimed Alwyn. "Iodoform, yes, but not chocolate."
For answer the Second Engineer grasped Burgoyne's arm and led him across the compartment. With a sense of smell almost as acute as that of a dog, he led Alwyn to a dark corner formed by the angle of one of the cabin bulkheads with the ship's side. There, seated on an upturned bucket, was Miles—and there was no doubt now as to the reek of chocolate. Filled with indignation at the gross selfishness of the drummer, Burgoyne held out his hand.
"I'll trouble you to hand over what's left," he said curtly.
But Miles was not going to surrender his spoils without protest.
"Say, what for?" he asked. "If I took the precaution to lay in a stock, that is my affair."