EZRA MORGAN hastened such repairs as were required for making the Seriphus ready for sea; the tanker left the dry-dock, steamed out the Golden Gate, and took aboard oil at a Southern California port.
All tanks, a well-lashed deck load of cased-lubricant—consigned to a railroad in Manchuri—petroleum for the furnaces, brought the Seriphus down to the Plimsoll Mark; she drove from shore and crossed the Pacifié where, at three God-forsaken Eastern roadsteads, she unloaded and made agents for the oil- purchasers happy with shipments delivered on time.
The romance of caravan routes, and pale kerosene lamps burning in Tartar tents, escaped both Ezra Morgan and. Richter; they went about their business of changing American and English minted gold for certain contrabands much wanted in the States. The chief engineer favored gum-opium as a road to riches; Ezra dealt in liquors and silks, uncut gems and rare laces.
Fortunately for the chief engineer's peace of mind, the spare, double-end Scotch boiler was not used on the Russian voyage. Gathright was forgotten and Hylda, safe in an eastern music school, was not likely to take up with another objectionable lover. Richter, relieved of a weight, went about the engine-room and boiler-room humming a score of tunes, all set to purring dynamos, clanking pumps, and musical cross-heads.
At mid-Pacific, on a second voyage—this time to an oilless country, if ever there were one, Mindanao—a, frightened water-tender came through the bulkhead door propelled by scalding steam, and there was much to do aboard the Seriphus. The port boiler had blown out a tube; the spare, midship boiler was filled with fresh water and the oil-jets started.
Richter, stripped to the waist, it being one hundred and seventeen degrees hot on deck, drove his force to super-human effort, Ezra Morgan, seven hours after the accident, had the steam and speed he ordered, in no uncertain toney, through the bridge speaking-tube.
Fergerson, a quiet man always, had occasion, the next day, to enter the chief's cabin, where Richter sat writing a letter to Hylda, which he expected to post via a homeward bound ship. Richter glared at the second engineer.
"That spare boiler—" begun Fergerson.
"What of it?"
"Well, mon, it's been foamin' an' a gauge-glass broke, an' there’s something wrong wi'-it."
"We can't repair th' port boiler until we reach Mindanao."
Fergerson turned to go.
"Ye have m' report," he said acidly. "That boiler’s bewitched, or somethin'."
"Go aft!" snarled Richter, who resumed writing his letter.
He hesitated once, chewed on the end of the pen, tried to frame the words he wanted to say to Hylda. Then he went on:
"—expect to return to San Francisco within thirty-five days. Keep up your music—forget Gathright—I'll get you a good man, with straight shoulders and a big fortune, when I come back and have time to look around."
Richter succeeded in posting the letter, along with the Captain's mail, when the Seriphus spoke a Government collier that afternoon and sheered close enough to toss a package aboard. Ezra Morgan leaned over the bridge-rail and eyed the smudge of smoke and plume of steam that came from the tanker's squat funnel. He called for Richter, who climbed the bridge-ladder to the captain's side.
"We're only logging nine, point five knots," said Ezra Morgan. "Your steam it low—it's getting lower. What's th' matter? Saving oil?"
"That spare boiler is foaming," the chief explained.
"Damn you and your spare boiler! What business had you leaving San Francisco with a defective boiler? Your report to Mr. Henningay stated that everything was all right in engine-room and boiler-room."
"Foam comes from soap or—something else in the water."
"Something else—"
Richter got away from Ezra Morgan on a pretense of going below to the boiler-room. Instead of going below, however, he went aft and leaned over the taffrail. Somehow or other, he feared that spare boiler and the consequence of conscience.
Limping, with three-quarters of the necessary steam pressure, the Seriphus reached Mindanao and was forced to return to California without repairs to the port boiler. While repairs, new tubes and tube-sheet were put in place by boilersmiths, Richter saw his daughter, who had come west from music school.
The change in her was pronounced; she spoke not at all of Gathright, whose disappearance she could not understand; and Richter, keen where his daughter was concerned, realized that her thinness and preoccupation was on account of the missing electrician.
"I get you a fine fellow," he promised Hylda.
He brought several eligible marine engineers to the house. Hylda snubbed them and cried in secret.
An urgent telegram called Richter back to the Seriphus. He made two long voyages, one down Chili-way, the other half around the world, before the tanker's bow was turned toward California. Mech time had elapsed from the night he had thrust Gathright into the spare boiler and turned on the oil-jets beneath its many tubes. Once, in Valparaiso, an under engineer pointed out red rust leaking from the gauge-glass of the spare boiler.
"Looks like blood," commented this engineer.
Richter scoffed, but that afternoon he drank himself stupid on kummel, obtained from an engineer's club ashore. Another time, just after the tanker left the port of Aden on her homebound passage, a stowaway crawled out from beneath the cold boiler and gave Richter the fright of his life.
"Why, mon," said Fergerson, who was present in the boiler-room, "that's only a poor wisp o' an Arab."
"I thought it was a ghost," blabbered Richter.
Barometer pressure rose when the Seriphus neared mid-Pacific. Ezra Morgan predicted a typhoon before the tanker was on the longitude of Guam. Long rollers came slicing across the Seriphus' bow, drenched the forecastle, filled the ventilators and flooded the boiler-room.
Richter went below, braced himself in the rolling engine-room, listened to his engines clanking their sturdy song, then waddled over the gratings and ducked below the beam that marked the bulkhead door. An oiler in high rubber-boots lunged toward the chief engineer.
"There's something inside th' spare boiler!" shouted the man. "Th' boiler-room crew won't work, sir."
Richter waded toward a frightened group all of whom were staring at the spare boiler. A hollow rattling sounded when the tanker heaved and pitched—as if some one were knocking bony knuckles againt the stubborn iron plates.
"A loose bolt," whispered Richter. "Keep th' steam to th' mark, or I'll wipe a Stillson across th' backs of all of you," he added in a voice that they could hear and understand.
Superstition, due to the menacing storm and high barometer, the uncanny
