“Yes, sir; one of the links of the rudder chains has parted close to the quarter-block. You can turn the wheel a dozen times without anything going wrong; but when the link lies a certain way, the fractured part acts as a sort of pawl and jams hard against the shell of the block. I’ll just cut out the defective link, and fit a shackle. Then, if the head of the pin’s cut off the chain’ll render perfectly.”
“In that case there’s no reason why we shouldn’t take the schooner in tow and make for the ship,” observed Raxworthy.
“Certainly, sir!” replied the leading stoker imperturbably. “Fog’s lifting some, and we can see a good hundred yards ahead.”
“I’m not going to shift before two bells in the second dog watch” (5 p.m.), decided the midshipman. “So you’d better knock off what you’re doing and get cleaned. I want you to take the part of Father Christmas. Understand—repairs cannot possibly be executed before the time I have mentioned.”
A knowing smile spread over the usually impassive features of the leading stoker. He even went to the extent of winking at his superior officer.
“Right, sir, I tumble to it,” he rejoined. “Replacing that defective link won’t be possible afore one bell!”
It was a neat little bit of deception, but Kenneth, in the knowledge that the commander would have to admit the injustice of the punishment he had awarded, was determined to carry out his programme and give the fisherfolks’ children their Christmas treat.
Brown went off to deck himself up in the rôle chosen by the midshipman. There was plenty of oakum in the picket-boat’s engine-room. Out of that he fashioned beard, moustache and eyebrows of a prodigious and fearsome character. Red bunting from some old signal flags he fashioned into a robe, with white collar and cuffs cut from the French captain’s table napery. His red, pointed cap was adorned with holly, while his feet were encased in sea-boots splattered with mica—shamelessly obtained from some spare sparking plugs—to give the effect of snow crystals.
“Gracious, Brown!” ejaculated Raxworthy, when he saw this scarlet apparition framed in the doorway of the lobby. “You mustn’t look so glum! You’ll frighten the kids.”
“Can’t ‘elp it, sir,” replied the leading stoker mournfully. “I was born glum—so me old mother says. I’m doing me best—actin’ under orders so to speak, but me face is me own.”