for he wore his loin-cloth
continuously; but the crew, having worked under orders, did not feel as
he did. The completed work satisfied Mr. Wardrop. He would at the last
have made shift to run to Singapore, and gone home without vengeance
taken to show his engines to his brethren in the craft; but the
others and the captain forbade him. They had not yet recovered their
self-respect.

"It would be safer to make what ye might call a trial trip, but beggars
mustn't be choosers; an if the engines will go over to the hand-gear,
the probability--I'm only saying it's a probability--the chance is that
they'll hold up when we put steam on her."

"How long will you take to get steam?" said the skipper.

"God knows! Four hours--a day--half a week. If I can raise sixty pound
I'll not complain."

"Be sure of her first; we can't afford to go out half a mile, and break
down."

"My soul and body, man, we're one continuous breakdown, fore an' aft! We
might fetch Singapore, though."

"We'll break down at Pygang-Watai, where we can do good," was the
answer, in a voice that did not allow argument. "She's my boat,
and--I've had eight months to think in."

No man saw the Haliotis depart, though many heard her. She left at two
in the morning, having cut her moorings, and it was none of her crew's
pleasure that the engines should strike up a thundering half-seas-over
chanty that echoed among the hills. Mr. Wardrop wiped away a tear as he
listened to the new song.

"She's gibberin'--she's just gibberin'," he whimpered. "Yon's the voice
of a maniac."

And if engines have any soul, as their masters believe, he was quite
right. There were outcries and clamours, sobs and bursts of chattering
laughter, silences where the trained ear yearned for the clear note, and
torturing reduplications where there should have been one deep voice.
Down the screw-shaft ran murmurs and warnings, while a heart-diseased
flutter without told that the propeller needed re-keying.

"How does she make it?" said the skipper.

"She moves, but--but she's breakin' my heart. The sooner we're at
Pygang-Watai, the better. She's mad, and we're waking the town."

"Is she at all near safe?"

"What do I care how safe she is? She's mad. Hear that, now! To be sure,
nothing's hittin' anything, and the bearin's are fairly cool, but--can
ye not hear?"

"If she goes," said the skipper, "I don't care a curse. And she's my
boat, too."

She went, trailing a fathom of weed