He woke later—broad awake in a flash—with a wild feeling of disaster; the feeling that snatches instinctively at the heart when a ship's engines stop at sea in the night. For the Delphian was rolling to immense waves without steerage way; the thrum of her engines was still. Mark flung himself into his clothes, for only one thought filled him—that somehow this must be his fault; his the blame that the Delphian lay helpless, pitching to the sea's before a gathering storm. "Disgrace—disgrace—disgrace—" the phantom voice of the still engines rebuked him as he went swiftly down the dirty iron ladders.
The youngest engineer greeted him. In grimy dungaree, with the black look of the mid-watch on his face, he could scarcely have been identified with the banjo-twanging wag of the mess-room.
"Hot eccentric-strap," he explained, as though Mark had never heard of such a thing before. "Slowed the engine—no good. Turned the hose on the blame thing—no good, nasty mess. Ready to seize any minute and knock the valve-gear into a cocked hat. Stopped to see what's the matter."
