CHAPTER VIII
A couple of afternoons later, Norah's fingers playing in his hair roused Dick, somnolent from the heat.
'What's wrong with the engines?' she asked. Dick, who knew nothing of machinery, went through the motions of intelligent auscultation.
'They are banging and clattering worse than yesterday,' she persisted, with her head on one side; 'hurry, miss a beat, hurry. And I'm sure we're going slower.'
'The Mimi was never an ocean greyhound,' said Dick.
Now Norah mentioned it, the engines did sound odd. Why didn't he know more about the damn things? It was monstrous running a British boat with black officers and crew. Anything might happen. It would be deuced awkward if they broke down; it might make them ridiculous. But the odd noises he thought he noticed might be imaginary.
'She'll get us there before she sinks,' he said.
Norah pulled his hair a trifle harder. 'Nothing like an optimist,' she remarked.
'It wouldn't be the first time.'
'What do you mean? Has she sunk before?'