Ezra Morgan came below, while the spare boiler was cooling, and entered Richter’s temporary cabin—the “ditty-box” with the play actresses’ pictures glued everywhere. Fergerson had applied rude doctoring—gauze bandages soaked in petroleum—on face and arms.
“What’s th’ matter, man?” asked Ezra Morgan. “Have you gone mad?”
“I heard some one calling my daughter, Hylda.”
“Where do you keep your gin?”
“It’s gone! Th’ voice was there inside th’ spare boiler. Did Fergerson look; did he find a skeleton, or—”
Ezra Morgan pinched Richter’s left arm, jabbed home a hypodermic containing morphine, and left the chief engineer to sleep out his delusions. Fergerson came to the “ditty-box” some watches later. Richter sat up.
“What was in th’ spare boiler?” asked the chief.
“Scale, soda, a soapy substance.”
“Nothing else?”
“Why, mon, that’s enough to make her foam.”