"Cheeky brute, he broke out like that when he saw me. I'll ask him what the hell he's laughing at if he doesn't shut up."
"Never mind him," they said, "he can't help it, he'll be alright in a minute." They went out into the boiler house and the new man followed; the stoker was asleep on his box against the wall; they paused, all three, and stood looking at him.
"They are a drowsy lot, these chaps," the new man remarked. "See me wake him up." He picked up a heavy firing iron, and, standing in front of the stoker, dropped it on the iron plates with a huge clatter.
The stoker—he had been in a very light doze—jumped up instantly and stood fronting the new man, face to face, directly under a lamp; for fully half a minute he stared, in speechless, motionless, wonder, then he burst forth into mighty guffaws that shook the very building. He caught sight of the others standing a few yards off.
"Strike me pink! Take 'im away. Take 'im away," he moaned in piteous appeal, squirming painfully with his hand on his stomach.
The new man stared at him in petrified rage and astonishment. "What the hell is the matter with you?" he asked. "You were asleep," he said, severely, "and it's no use trying to pass it off by laughing."
"Oh, go away, go away." The stoker motioned with brawny hand and averted face. He took a sideways glance out of one eye, and burst forth into fresh paroxysms.
Smith and Carstairs retired somewhat precipitately into the yard, and under the friendly shade of night, behind a big cable drum, they screamed in unison.
The new man after vainly endeavouring to quell the stoker with a frown, went back to the engine room again; as he opened the door the driver, who was just mopping his eyes with a red cotton handkerchief, caught sight of him and burst forth anew.
Smitten with a sudden suspicion, the new man glanced hastily over his clothing and passed his handkerchief over his face, but the ink was quite dry and gave no evidence.