"Ain't there no steam, then?"
Mr. Sims shook his head.
"Then what in thunder have you been doing down there? Didn't you have orders to keep up a full head of steam?"
Mr. Sims nodded.
"For God's sake use your tongue, man," roared the mate. "Why ain't there no steam?"
"Because all the firemen are on deck."
Mr. Dykes almost danced with rage, yet this time he could say nothing for the simple reason that he now recollected having ordered all hands on deck for the purpose of serving the guns and passing up ammunition out of the hold.
"Oh, get to hell out of it!" he spluttered and Mr. Sims vanished back into obscurity.
Having despatched some firemen below to get up steam, the mate again fell to considering the advisability of drawing off since the enemy's fire showed no signs of slackening. To do him justice, it was not from fear of being himself hit at any moment, but rather from a vivid anticipation of the fate in store for him and the others on board if they fell into the hands of the enemy. Still, if Mr. Sims's report was correct, nothing could be done for at least half an hour.
In order to assure himself that the firemen were doing their utmost, Mr. Dykes left the bos'n's-mate in charge of the deck and descended to the stokehold—a thing he would not have dared to do had McPhulach been on board. Having ascertained that there was already a fair pressure of steam, he returned to the deck and personally tested the capstans used for hauling up the anchors.