t requirement.
Hence, her dynamos protested vigorously against the strain imposed upon
them by the radio machine. Any electric engine is unlike any steam
engine. Steam engines will do so much work--no more. Dynamos or
motors will do so much work--and then more. They can be overloaded,
unsparingly. But the strain tells. Stout, dependable parts become
hot, wear away, crumble, snap.

In the typical case of the _Vandalia_, the question of whether or not
the wireless men should be provided with all of the current they
required, was narrowed down to individuals.

If Minion had disliked Peter Moore he could have slowed down the
dynamos at the critical times when the operator needed the high
voltage; but Peter had had encounters with chief engineers before. He
had at first courted Minion's good graces with fair cigars, radio
gossip and unflagging courtesy. And on discovering that the chief was
a sentimentalist at heart and a poet by nature, he had presented him
with an inexpensively bound volume of his favorite author. Daring, but
a master-stroke! He had not since wanted for voltage, and plenty of it.

He pondered the advisability of taking Minion entirely into his
confidence as he followed the sweated, undershirted shoulders to the
engine-room galley, and thence across the oily grill of shining steel
bars which comprised one of the numerous and hazardous superfloors
which surrounded the cylinders.

Minion was nursing a stubbornly warm bearing in the port shaft alley.

The fat cylinder revolved with a pleasant ringing noise, the blurring
knuckles of the frequent joints vanishing down the yellow, vaulted
alley to a point of perspective, where the shaft projected through the
hull. The floundering of the great propellers seemed alternately to
compress and expand the damp atmosphere.

The sad, white face of Minion arose from the dripping flanks of the
journal as he caught sight of Peter in the arched entrance. A pale
smile flickered at his lips.

The chief did not in any wise reflect his monstrously heaving,
oil-dripping surroundings. He was a small, deliberate man, with oceans
of repressed energies. His skin had the waxy whiteness of a pond lily.
An exquisitely trimmed black moustache adorned his mouth. The deep
brown eyes of a visionary rested beneath the gentle, scythe-like curves
of thin and pointed eyebrows.

"You look worried," vouchsafed Minion as their hands met. His quiet
voice had a clarity which