A man, his face a wet, shapeless, raw mass of flesh, stumbled out of the fiddley, staggered a few paces, and fell sprawling on the deck. Another followed whose hair, still attached to the skin, was falling off in lumps, and he, too, collapsed on the deck. At the same moment the steady throb of the engines ceased and the Hawk began to lose way. Meanwhile the German had drawn off, and, for the time being, firing ceased on both sides. The enemy, it would seem, was in little better condition than the privateer, for she was steaming at a rate of certainly not more than five knots. Calamity, watching her from the bridge, cursed aloud as he saw his hoped-for prize slowly but surely getting away while he was unable to prevent her or to go in pursuit.
"Send for McPhulach!" he cried; but, before anyone could obey, the chief-engineer mounted to the bridge.
"I'm sair dootin' we'll hae to bide where we are," he remarked placidly.
"Do you mean to say the engines are wrecked?" demanded Calamity.
"I wouldna go sae far as tae say that," answered the engineer. "Ye micht speak o' them as assorted scrap-iron."
The Captain laid a firm hand on McPhulach's arm.
"You've got to repair those engines," he said quietly.
"Eh!"
"You heard me."
"Losh presarve us, mon, the A'michty Himsel' couldna do it!"