pen everything out, Mr. McAlnwick," says the Second as he strolls
round for a last look before going on deck. I carry out the order,
glance at the water-level in the boilers, and then go for'ard to see
how many of my firemen are missing. They should all be here by now.
No, two short still. Old Androwsky rears himself up and points with
the stem of his pipe at the quay. The ship has moved away, and the two
men with sailors' bags and mattresses are watching us. They will get
aboard in the locks.

The Skipper is in uniform on the bridge, and the Mate is, as usual,
in a hurry. The mooring winch is groaning horribly as she hauls on a
cable running from the stern to the quay while the tug pulls our head
slowly round. Right down to the centre of the loading disc now. The
Second Mate rushes to the fiddle-top, and shouts for "more steam"--the
winch has stuck--and a howl from below tells him that the donkeyman is
doing his best. As I go below again the sharp clang of the telegraph
strikes my ear--"_Stand by._"

The steam is warming the engine-room, and there is, in the atmosphere
down here, a peculiar pungent smell, always present when getting away.
It is, I suppose, the smell of steam, if steam has any smell. "Give
'er a turn, Mr. McAlnwick." The Chief looks down from the deck-door,
and I answer "All right, sir." We are moving into the locks now, and
as I start the little high-speed reversing engine the telegraph
pointer moves round to "Slow ahead" with a sharp clang. "Ash-pit
dampers off!" cries George the Fourth, and runs to close the
drain-cocks. There is a sudden loud hammering as I open the throttle,
and she moves away under her own steam. Then she sticks on a
dead-centre, _a point du mort_, as the French _mecaniciens_ say, and
George rushes to open the intermediate valve, kicking open the
water-service cock as he goes past it. At last she goes away, slow,
solemn, and steamy, three pairs of eyes watching every link and bar
for "trouble." "All right?" asks the Chief from above, and the Second,
standing by the staircase, answers "All right, sir." Then "clang" goes
the telegraph round to "Stop," and I close the throttle. "We're in the
locks," says George, fiddling with an oil-cup which is loose on the
intermediate pressure rod. "We're in the locks, and we soon shall
cross the bar." And as he busies himself with one thing and another he
hums the tune which has swept over Swansea like some contagious
disease of late:

"