“They're goin' down to have a look at mines in Mexico,” said Murphy.
Mr. Feeny's first keen lust for wisdom survived the days of heavy toil that were his portion.
“But I've read hotter stuff,” he told himself one black night when he had been at sea ten days. He lay in his bunk and listened to the heavy seas break under the Orinoco's quarter. This was varied by mighty shivers when the racing screw fanned the air. And then suddenly it was as if tons and tons of water with the weight of lead, and driven by some vast power, had dropped on the Orinoco. Mr. Feeny sprang from his bunk. His first instinct was to rush for the deck, but thoughts of his mates in the stoke-hole sent him down the iron ladders that gave access to the vitals of the ship. As he gained the engine-room, the stokers burst out of their steel-walled pen, and after them came a rush of steam.
“All out?” roared Feeny.
“All out,” some one bellowed in return, and they began swarming up the ladders, Feeny leaping from round to round in advance. At last, spent and breathless, they issued into the black night.
Then came a second shock. A mighty sea lifted the Orinoco, three thousand tons of steel and wood, and tossed her like a cork against something that did not yield to the terrific impact. Mr. Feeny picked himself up from among his fellows.
“She's aground,—and no thanks to her!” he bawled.
“The crew's gone with the boats!” said some one in his ear.
“Is that you, Tom Murphy? Let's see what's come of the millionaires!”
Mr. Feeny, chastely garmented in an undershirt, and with a wind-blown halo of red hair, invaded the smoking-room. His mates, naked to the waist and grimy from their toil, but showing patches of white skin here and there where the waves had touched them, slouched at his heels. They found that Capital was just getting on its feet. MacCandlish, his ruddy cheeks the color of Carrara marble, was crawling out from under a table where he had been thrown; the others of his party were variously scattered about the room.