Dropping down through the hatchway his bare feet felt no heat. None of the signs of "trouble" which he knew so well was present. He had fought cargoes like this one.
All was cool below; not the faintest indication of gas. But still there was an odor of fire. He crawled out into the wings, and as he did so his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness. Thus by sight he located the source of the baffling fire smell. It was under the deck just forward of the hatch—a heap of ashes burned from all sorts of old junk. Mattresses had made part of the fire.
Not two feet away from where the fire had burned most briskly lay a five-gallon tin of kerosene on its side. The arsonist who had carried it there either had lost his nerve at the end and been afraid to open its cock, or else he had depended upon it to explode.
Still this fire which had been set with the intention of destroying the Daphne had made much smoke and burned out impotently. The deck above it was only slightly charred.
Paul raked through the ashes feverishly. The coal underneath was as cool to the touch as it was elsewhere. Not more than a handful of it was blistered.
When he drew himself up on deck again he hauled a couple of buckets of water from over the side and threw it on the spot where the fire had burned as a matter of extraordinary precaution. Nor did he forget to bring the kerosene out of the hold.
Emily met him with a smile of gladness, which immediately turned into a laugh of humor as Paul stepped into the galley again.
"Where have you been—what have you been doing?" she asked.
"Why—what is the matter?"
"You should see yourself in a glass. You're as black as a moor."