Neil nodded with a rueful glance. "Stoking." He took the sweat rag from his belt and wiped his neck. "Locked in the brig below for six days while we loaded in Genoa; then they put me in the stokehole. Hot work."
"Where are we?"
"Passed Gibraltar three days ago. In the Canaries Current now." He took the dipper from Tod's feeble grasp. "Hungry?"
"A little. How's the cook?"
Neil turned away. "The cook? . . . Oh, he's all right. He's sent you soup and canned milk from the galley; he came for'ard once or twice. Oh, he's all right.—Well, I'll go and wash up and then come back."
Tod Moran lay quiet. The morning sunlight pierced the after bulkhead with two golden spears which quivered on the littered floor. Through the open door and the ventilators turned to windward, the sound of the chipping of paint came to him on the drowsy air. The swish of the water along the plates of the hull was like the scarcely audible music of a dream. Coats and shirts flapped lazily on their pegs; the soiled light-curtains swayed in the somnolent breeze. It was good to be here, lying in a bunk and listening to the sound of the morning's work on deck. He kicked off his blanket, and in a surprised moment realized that his limbs were so tired and weak that they trembled at the unwonted exertion.
Presently the inspecting officers appeared in the doorway on their morning round. The faces of the captain, the first mate, and the chief engineer peered within; but only the commander of the Araby, acting as the ship's doctor, descended the steps.
"Well, Moran, I'm glad to see you better," he remarked in his treble voice. "I've doctored many a man on the sea these last twenty years; and I generally pull them through. Yes; I don't want to appear boastful, but I generally pull them through. I sometimes think I missed my calling. I should have been an M. D." His lean face broke into a smile; little wrinkles formed at the corners of his red-rimmed eyes. "Mighty lucky that your brother could come along and nurse you. Have him give you a kerosene bath and then get some broth from the galley."
He left with almost a swagger in the swerve of his thin shoulder blades.
Later in the morning, refreshed by the bath to which he had submitted like a child, and the few spoonfuls of beef broth, Tod Moran surveyed his brother with brighter eyes. "What are we going to do, Neil?"
"Heaven knows, Tod. All I care about is getting home. We're bound west for Panama."
"Will we reach there?"
"Hush!" Neil glanced furtively round. "Be careful what you say. I was scared stiff when you were delirious, for fear you'd talk too much. I don't know what to think. Maybe we will—though Toppy has told the men that in Genoa he saw the rats trying to climb over the tins on the hawsers. Funny thing. I don't know—and I care less."
"You take things so easy. Everything's an adventure to you. You seem to eat it up."
"Do I?" Neil grinned. His handsome face was once more visible, his dark hair brushed back from his high forehead. "Well, it's all experience, isn't it? I want to try everything once before I croak."
"Even firing in a stokehole?"
"Sure thing. It's rather awful down there—and mighty hard work. The temperature is working up to a hundred twenty degrees; soon it'll be climbing toward thirty. But I'm learning things down there, Tod."
"Learning things? You never do, Neil."
"Well, I get a different viewpoint, anyway." He paused and ruminated for a moment. "If anything is going to happen to this old tub, it'll happen before we hit the Canal. There's plenty of islands in the Caribbean; we could land on one easily."
He crossed to a bench before the table and sat down. "I'm off till four. Want me to read you something?"
"What?"
"Here's a book the fellows have been devouring in the firemen's fo'c's'le. It's called 'The Lookout: A Romance of the Sea.' It's pretty good."
Tod Moran smiled listlesly. "I thought I tossed that overboard. It's rotten, that book. I know; it's the one I read on the train going to San Francisco. I thought it was the real stuff then; but now I know it's all lies."
"Oh, it isn't so bad. Listen to this:
" 'Cursed luck,' said Captain Titherington, 'with this barometer falling and the pirate devil chasing us!'
" 'No sloop can overtake us, Captain,' said his mate. 'Pago Pago isn't far ahead. The guns are out and the decks cleared for action. Let us turn and fight!'
" 'Mr. Fallon, you are ever avid for a fight,' said the captain. 'I cannot risk the lives of my noble, brave men of the sea, so loyal—'"
"That's enough," Tod cut in sharply. "I can't stand any more. The fool that wrote that stuff hasn't even been to sea."
"Maybe he has," Neil said with a smile. "Perhaps on a passenger liner—or a private yacht."
Tod sighed. "Yes; he might even be a ship's officer. But he better not try to pull any stuff about the men in the fo'c's'le."
"Well, listen to this, then:
"Climbing aloft the lookout was almost choked by the smoke and din of the fighting. At the crow's nest he swore a mighty oath. The man whom he had been sent to relieve lay wounded nigh unto death!.."
"Now that's better," Tod murmured as he settled himself into his mattress. "Read some more."
Neil's voice droned on. Tod forgot the little world of the ship in which he lay. He forgot the men who commanded her and the doom which lay ahead. He was aloft with the lookout man, leaping through deeds of high adventure. By golly, this was good. It was like a shot of dope; it made you forget. He thrilled to the story of this gentleman adventurer who had smuggled himself on to the ship; he smelt the smoke and the burning powder; he heard the sharp rattle of musketry. This was a hero for you; he never failed. Tod sank into restful, satisfied slumber.
Drums again, drawing closer—a sharp tattoo like pagan armies gathering for an attack; so close they came that he felt their soft vibration in the air. He opened his drowsy eyes. On the crossbeam above him, a cockroach crawled swiftly out of sight. In his ears sounded the musical slap of water along the starboard strake.
His eyes caught sight of a rose-tinted book lying on his blanket. He reached for it, clenched it in his hand. By golly, he'd had enough of such opium. He stretched his arm across to the slanting plates. "The Lookout" vanished through the porthole.
He lay back with a sigh, listening. There it was again—drumming. The tremor of the steel plates at his side drew his attention. He caught his breath sharply, for a thought, which seemed to steal into the very recesses of his heart, swept him up. That was it —that was the drumming: the steady soft pulsation of the steamer's engines driving the Araby homeward.
CHAPTER II
MR. HAWKES SHOWS HIS HAND
THE rusty tramp had shoved her nose southwest across the twentieth parallel before Tod Moran was once more able to take his place on deck. He did not return to the galley, however; the boatswain brought word that the second mate had ordered him to chip paint in the alleyways. It was not difficult to sit on his haunches and chip the dirty white scale from the steel plates with a small, edged hammer; but whenever he raised his arms to reach overhead he felt his wound gnaw quietly but surely at his side. Bits of paint flew like sand in his eyes; the grit dug into his skin, and itched. He kept at it steadily, grinding out the long daylight hours on deck.
From the open door of the galley came the sound of the cook at work: the hiss of the meat saw, the clang of the range door, the rattle of dishes. Tom Jarvis now went about his duties alone, relieved only slightly by the former coal-passer, Red Mitchell, who had taken over the care of the cabin aft together with the officer's mess.