“He must be in great distress. And I am sure he is not getting proper care,” she murmured.
Van Steen cautiously advanced to an open door beyond the engine-room, Miss Hollister hovering in the background. No sooner had the sufferer in the bunk caught sight of the young man than his big voice roared:
“Come to gloat, have you? I suppose you’re glad to see me on my beam ends after the awful way I abused you. Get to hell out of here.”
“Miss Hollister came below to express her sympathy,” began Van Steen, ready to dodge a water-bottle that stood beside the bunk.
“Holy mackerel! The lovely lady with the gray hair?” blurted Johnny Kent, his face redder than ordinary. “Did she, honestly? Is she out there? Did she hear me slip that cuss-word?”
“I am afraid so. Do you want to apologize? She accepts my statement that you are a grand man in an emergency.”
“Fetch her in. No, wait a minute. Straighten out the bedclothes and see that my nightie is buttoned clear up to the neck. This is the da-darnedest thing that ever happened to me.”
It was also an unprecedented experience for Miss Katharine Hollister, but one could not live twenty-four hours on board the Fearless without losing one’s grip on conventions, even though they were made in New England. She halted at the brass-bound threshold of the little room, and peered curiously at the recumbent figure of the chief engineer with his gray mustache and mop of grizzled hair.
“Come in and take the chair by my desk, ma’am. What on earth made you want to see me?” was his hearty greeting.
She remained standing, and confessed, hesitating nervously: