The White Engineer Hovers Round The Mouth Of The
Pit, Shouting Down Directions And Ever And Anon Plunging Down The
Little Iron Ladder To Carry Them Out Himself.
At intervals he
stands on the rail with his head craned round the edge of the sun
deck to listen to the captain, who is up on the little deck above,
for there is no telegraph to the engines, and our gallant
commander's voice is not strong.
While the white engineer is
roosting on the rail, the black engineer comes partially up the
ladder and gazes hard at me; so I give him a wad of tobacco, and he
plainly regards me as inspired, for of course that was what he
wanted. Remember that whenever you see a man, black or white,
filled with a nameless longing, it is tobacco he requires. Grim
despair accompanied by a gusty temper indicates something wrong with
his pipe, in which case offer him a straightened-out hairpin. The
black engineer having got his tobacco, goes below to the stoke-hole
again and smokes a short clay as black and as strong as himself.
The captain affects an immense churchwarden. How he gets through
life, waving it about as he does, without smashing it every two
minutes, I cannot make out.
At last we anchor for the night just inside Nazareth Bay, for
Nazareth Bay wants daylight to deal with, being rich in low islands
and sand shoals. We crossed the Equator this afternoon.
June 6th.
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