“I’ve seen a mine explode at Bantry—once—prematoor,” he volunteered.
“That’s all right,” said Hinchcliffe, brushing down his singed beard with a singed forefinger. (He had been watching too closely.) “Has she any more little surprises up her dainty sleeve?”
“She hasn’t begun yet,” said my engineer, with a scornful cough. “Some one ’as opened the petrol-supply-valve too wide.”
“Change places with me, Pyecroft,” I commanded, for I remembered that the petrol-supply, the steam-lock, and the forced draught were all controlled from the right rear seat.
“Me? Why? There’s a whole switchboard full o’ nickel-plated muckin’s which I haven’t begun to play with yet. The starboard side’s crawlin’ with ’em.”
“Change, or I’ll kill you!” said Hinchcliffe, and he looked like it.
“That’s the ’tiffy all over. When anything goes wrong, blame it on the lower deck. Navigate by your automatic self, then! I won’t help you any more.”
We navigated for a mile in dead silence.
“Talkin’ o’ wakes——” said Pyecroft suddenly.
“We weren’t,” Hinchcliffe grunted.