With two officers mutinous and the crew yet to deal with, Captain Cary was not as happy as Señor Bazán. He went into the wheel-house and found the voice tube to the engine-room.
“Is this the chief?” he asked.
“Yes. Who the dickens are you?”
“The master, Captain Cary. Come to the saloon right away, if you please.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Can you kick her out of harbor at daybreak?”
“She can do that much, Captain Cary. Come down here later and I’ll make you weep.”
It was the tired voice of a Yankee from down east, rare music to Richard Cary’s ears. Presently the youthful chief engineer came dragging his lank frame into the saloon. A greasy cap was pulled over a shock of brown hair. The boiler suit was black with oil and coal dust. His face was besmirched like a burnt-cork minstrel. The white teeth gleamed in the smile of a rover who could not be daunted by life’s rough roads. He was a tropical tramp because he liked it.
“You look to me as if old Daddy Bazán knew where to find the right skipper,” said he, reaching for the water pitcher. “This is one pie-eyed voyage to the west coast, believe me. My name is Charlie Burnham, sir, and it takes a good deal to give me the yips or I’d be raving right now.”
“Burnham?” said Cary. “You sound like a letter from home. There are lots of Burnhams in my New Hampshire village of Fairfield.”