the chief murmured, "All right, I've got 'em, too. Take it, boy," and Alan flashed back with the Delphian's answering signal. Then the message came:
New York 3:22 P.M. Mark and Alan Ingram. Good Luck. Godspeed. H. B. Bolliver.
Sandy Hook had dimmed to a gray gleam astern; ahead there was nothing at all but slatey sea, with the last bay-gulls screaming and dropping back. Alan felt as though Mr. Bolliver's hand had reached out from that gray line and clapped him again on the shoulder. It was an instant before he could acknowledge the message, for China, at that moment, did not seem so near, across the dull water.
Mark went on his first watch fifteen minutes before eight bells. He was perfectly aware that the eye of the first assistant engineer was firmly on him, but he decided to behave as though he had been an oiler all his life. Before the watch was called he was busily employed seeing that the journals were running cool, feeling the crossheads and guides, and descending to touch the great flying crankpin with that peculiar swinging motion of the hand that he had
