Fergerson turned to go.
“Ye have m’ report,” he said acidly. “That boiler’s bewitched, or somethin’.”
“Go aft!” snarled Richter, who resumed writing his letter.
He hesitated once, chewed on the end of the pen, tried to frame the words he wanted to say to Hylda. Then he went on:
“—expect to return to San Francisco within thirty-five days. Keep up your music—forget Gathright—I’ll get you a good man, with straight shoulders and a big fortune, when I come back and have time to look around.”
Richter succeeded in posting the letter, along with the Captain’s mail, when the Seriphus spoke a Government collier that afternoon and sheered close enough to toss a package aboard. Ezra Morgan leaned over the bridge-rail and eyed the smudge of smoke and plume of steam that came from the tanker’s squat funnel. He called for Richter, who climbed the bridge-ladder to the captain’s side.
“We’re only logging nine, point five knots,” said Ezra Morgan. “Your steam is low—it’s getting lower. What’s th’ matter? Saving oil?”
“That spare boiler is foaming,” the chief explained.
“Damn you and your spare boiler! What business had you leaving San Francisco with a defective boiler? Your report to Mr. Henningay stated that everything was all right in engine-room and boiler-room.”
“Foam comes from soap or—something else in the water.”