“We got to have something cold to drink,” growled the man.
“Surely; I know that. But if you drink clear ice water in this heat, every passer in your watch will be yelling with cramps inside of half an hour.”
“Oh, I’ll risk ’em,” retorted the fellow.
“Well, I won’t. You just set that pail down here, jump up that ladder, go to the steward, and say I told him to give you three pounds of oatmeal.”
The captain’s manner was not one to brook delay or disobedience, and, muttering to himself, the passer went above, returning in due course with the oatmeal, which he gave to the skipper.
“Now you can drink,” said the latter, emptying the oatmeal into the pail, where it quickly formed a thin, milky gruel, “without getting cramps. Mr. Peters,” and he turned to the assistant, “keep your eyes open to see that no clear ice water comes down here. Pass the word that any man drinking clear ice water will be put in irons. I won’t have my passers knocked out on the very first day.”
The assistant started to deliver the order in the bunkers, when he was stopped by a frantic whistling at the speaking tube leading down from the engine room.
With a bound he reached it, the captain and the boys joining him.
“What is it?” he called.
While he listened for an answer, the chief fairly slid down the ladder.