fuel rested at a steeper angle than his weak eyes could see,
and his bar dislodged a wedged lump; an instant later the new passer was
half buried under a heap of sliding coal. Bewildered, but unhurt, he
crawled to the boiler-room, shaking the coal from his back and
shoulders. Through dust-filled ears he heard the general laugh at his
plight.

"Look at the nigger Irishman!" a stoker called.

"Irishman!" came the answer. "It's no man at all; it's a mouse you're
seein'--a bunker mouse."

From that moment the name Larry Walsh was forgotten.

* * *

The _San Gardo_ was late getting away that night; two bells of the
evening watch had sounded when at last she backed from her pier into the
North River and began the first mile of her trip to Galveston. Though
she showed a full six inches of the red paint below her water-line, the
loading of her freight had caused the delay. In the hold lay many parts
of sawmill machinery. When the last of this clumsy cargo had settled to
its allotted place, there was left an unusual void of empty blackness
below the deck hatches.

"It's up to you now, Matie," the stevedore had said to the impatient
first officer. "My job's done right, but she'll roll her sticks out if
it's rough outside."

"That's nice; hand me all the cheerful news you have when you know they
hung out storm-warnings at noon," the officer had growled as the
stevedore went ashore.

Signs that both the Government and the stevedore had predicted correctly
began to show as soon as the vessel cleared the Hook. The wind was
blowing half a gale from the southeast and had already kicked up a
troublesome sea. The ship, resenting her half-filled hold, pitched with
a viciousness new to the crew.

There was unusual activity on board the _San Gardo_ that night. Long
after the last hatch-cover had been placed the boatswain continued to
inspect, going over the deck from bow to stern to see that every movable
thing was lashed fast.

In the engine-room as well, extra precautions were taken. It was Robert
Neville's watch below; he was the first of the three assistant
engineers. Neville, a young man, was unique in that most undemocratic
institution, a ship's crew, for he apparently considered the stokers
under him as human beings. For one of his fire-room force he had an
actual liking.

"Why do you keep that fellow they call Bunker Mouse in your watch?" the
chief once asked.

"Because he's willing and the handiest man I have," Nev