The Argosy, Vol. 75, No. 4 — page 232: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

934 nels to do their duty, which, once ac- complished, would finish their period of usefulness. The newspaper reporters would afterward interview the separate gun’s crews, but they would not be objects of admiration to an adoring public. All glory would go to the men on deck who had delivered the shots. Other fire-room crews were not so well off. No. 3 especially was indis- posed for a wait of this sort. All at- tempts at conversation had ceased here. Nerves were strained to the breaking- point. Men gazed into each other’s seamed, seared faces. A gage-glass popped and broke. It was a small detail, yet each man jumped, startled into activity. Jones, a hulking, big coal-passer, cried, with an agonized voice: “My God! Oh, my God! Take me away! Let me out!” He covered his face with his hands and burst into long-drawn, piteous sobs, then hammered despairingly upon the water-tight bulkhead. All eyes turned upon him with con- tempt. For the second time that after- noon a water-tender wielded his ham- mer, and Jones’s unconscious form was roughly taken up and thrown be- hind a boiler, away from the sight of his maddened fellows. Then a shock threw every one from his feet. A roar followed—the battle was on. A call for more steam came from the engine-room. Each man hastened to his station. Enthusiasm ran riot. Rich, red, hot blood, with the Irish predominant, pumped through every man’s veins, shone in his begrimed face.- This was living. Each man talked to himself, lending what telepathic aid he could to the straggling men on the gun-deck. “Slip it to ’°em, boys. Uncle Sam- my’s got the goods. We'll show them we ain’t the ones to lay down—eh, lads!” They called their favorite pointers by their nicknames, eun- sang, would come later. THE ARGOSY. danced jigs when the roaring furnaces allowed them a moment’s respite. They hugged each other in ecstasy. No longer was theirs the fever of im- patience to be on deck. “ We'll drive this old wagon so hard and fast they can’t sink her.” And they fell to to do their share. The water-tender in No. 3 gazed with fascination at the steam-gage. Steadily upward it crawled until the safety-valve popped, when he sent two men on top of the boiler to tie it down. It became hot, blistering hot, but none cared. Good, cool, fresh air At present there was work to be done, and each man was riotously glad that he was able to take part in it. Few thought of Jones behind the boiler. Those who did forgot him instantly, or tried to—“ Think of a man showing the white feather on a spree like this.” “The white-livered whelp; big fel- low, too.” “ We will have to send him ashore when we get through.” And that was all. But it was different with Jones. He recovered consciousness shortly after the first shot was fited. Rising weakly on one elbow he gazed about, then sank back again into his huddled quar- ters. Gradually the location of his whereabouts became known to him. “How came he there? ” Another shock and a roar helped him out of his quandary. The battle was on! “ Had he been hurt?” A hasty inspection revealed the lump on his forehead. “Yes, he had. But, thank God, he was not too late to get back in the game!” He arose to his feet, stepped weakly from behind the boiler, and advanced, pale-faced, into the glare of the fire room. “ How’s things, Mac?” He addressed the water-tender. “ Get out of here!” was his answer, with another smashing blow from the powerful * Mac,” with the bare fist this time. It caught him flush be- EOPMICLOOOKS (0)