“Ye may b’ right—but if one did he could ha’ escaped by th’ fore man-hole plate. I had that off, an’ wondered who put it back again so carelessly. Ye know th’ boiler is a double-ender—wi’ twa man-holes.”
Richter was too numbed to show surprise. Fergerson left the “ditty-box” and pulled shut the door. The tanker, under reduced steam, made slow headway toward San Francisco.
One morning, a day out from soundings, the chief engineer awoke, felt around in the gloom, and attempted to switch on the electric light.
He got up and threw his legs over the edge of the bunk. A man sat leaning against the after plate. Richter blinked; the man, from the goggles on him and the crutch that lay across his knees, was the wireless operator who had been rescued from a sea grave.
“No need for light,” said the visitor in a familiar voice. “You can guess who I am, Richter.”
“A ghost!” said the chief. “Gathright’s ghost! Come to haunt me!”
“Not exactly to haunt you. I assure you I am living flesh—somewhat twisted, but living. I got out of that midship boiler, while you were bolting me in so securely. I waited until you went on deck for a hose, and replaced the after man-hole cover. I was stunned and lay hidden aboard for two days. Then I looked for Hylda. She was gone. I shipped as electrician for a port in Japan. I knocked around a bit—at radio work for the Japanese. It was chance that the Seriphus should have picked me up from the Nippon Maru.”
“That voice calling for Hylda,” cried Richter.
“Was a little reminder that I sent through the boiler-room ventilator; I knew you were down there, Richter.”
The marine engineer switched on the electric light.