ar throb goes on as before,
and George laughs, but the Second disappears through the door, I
following. I shall not easily forget that scream.

Half-way down, a fireman, his face blanching under the coal-dust and
sweat, meets us.

"What's up?" snaps the Second.

"Donkeyman, sir. In the crankpit!" He plunges downward again, and we
do the same. Down into the fierce oily heat illuminated by the
electrics in front of each engine. The second puts two fingers in his
mouth and whistles shrilly to those above. And then we fall to work.
The telegraph is flung over to "Stop," the throttle is closed, ash-pit
damper put on, and the regular throb slackens, hesitates, stops. With
a dexterous flick of the reversing engine the Second catches the
high-press engine on the stop centre and locks her there. And then we
look.

Far better for him, poor lad, if he had taken my tip and left those
tap-bolts to leak. The Second says "Hand-lamp," and I give him one.
People are coming down the stairs in numbers now, and the Chief rushes
up to us, looks down, and turns away sickened. The ponderous cranks
have blood dashed across them, the rod is streaked and lathered with
it. From the bottom of the pit comes no sound, no movement. Lying on
the plates is the spanner which must have spun from his hand as he
fell to destruction.

"Now then, how many more?" snarls the Second. Sweat streams from his
face as he pushes the intruders away and lifts a man-hole plate in
the platform. I seize the hand-lamp and get down on to the tank, and
the Second follows. It is not pleasant, understand, down there, where
bilge collects and rats run riot, and grease is rolled into filthy
black balls, and the stench is intolerable. I push on towards the pit.

* * * * *

A full moon, blood-red and enormous, hangs just above the eastern
sky-line. In the west still burns the glow of the vanishing sun, and
the pale sky is twinkling with innumerable stars. The regular throb
of the engines drives the ship forward again, a sailor is hauling
down the red ensign from the poop, and another moves to and fro,
silhouetted against the southern sky, on the foc'sle-head. Just ahead
of the bridge two more sailors sit busily sewing. The Old Man stands
by the chart-house door talking to the Mate. The dogs lie quietly on
the lower deck, their heads between their paws.

In the after-hatch, covered by the flag, lies that which is about to
be committed to t