sluicing comber thundered by, but through the
scuffle and confusion the Steam could hear the low, quick cries of the
ironwork as the various strains took them--cries like these: "Easy,
now--easy! _Now_ push for all your strength! Hold out! Give a
fraction! Holdup! Pull in! Shove crossways! Mind the strain at the
ends! Grip, now! Bite tight! Let the water get away from under--and
there she goes!"

The wave raced off into the darkness, shouting, "Not bad, that, if
it's your first run!" and the drenched and ducked ship throbbed to the
beat of the engines inside her. All three cylinders were white with
the salt spray that had come down through the engine-room hatch; there
was white fur on the canvas-bound steam-pipes, and even the
bright-work deep below was speckled and soiled; but the cylinders had
learned to make the most of steam that was half water, and were
pounding along cheerfully.

"How's the noblest outcome of human ingenuity hitting it?" said the
Steam, as he whirled through the engine-room.

"Nothing for nothing in this world of woe," the cylinders answered, as
though they had been working for centuries, "and precious little for
seventy-five pounds' head. We've made two knots this last hour and a
quarter! Rather humiliating for eight hundred horse-power, is n't it?"

"Well, it's better than drifting astern, at any rate. You seem rather
less--how shall I put it?--stiff in the back than you were."

"If you'd been hammered as we've been this night, you would n't be
stiff--iff--iff, either. Theoreti--retti--retti--cally, of course,
rigidity is the thing. Purrr--purr--practically, there has to be a
little give and take. _We_ found that out by working on our sides for
five minutes at a stretch--chch--chh. How's the weather?"

"Sea's going down fast," said the Steam.

"Good business," said the high-pressure cylinder. "Whack her up, boys.
They've given us five pounds more steam"; and he began humming the
first bars of "Said the Young Obadiah to the Old Obadiah," which, as
you may have noticed, is a pet tune among engines not built for high
speed. Racing-liners with twin-screws sing "The Turkish Patrol" and
the overture to the "Bronze Horse," and "Madame Angot," till something
goes wrong, and then they render Gounod's "Funeral March of a
Marionette" with variations.

"You'll learn a song of your own some fine day," said the Steam, as he
flew up the fog-horn for one last bellow.

Next day the sky cleared and the