little more power from that engine-room," he said, by way of excuse.
"Then you'll get your power," declared the autocrat of his little world. "You'll get power enough, if that's all that's wrong," he repeated, as he made his way once more toward the bridge.
McKinnon switched off and waited until Captain Yandel's order had time to be acted on. Then he tested his spark again. The eruption, as the contact-points of his despatching-key came together, seemed to stab and tear a sudden hole in the silence. It roared and cannonaded out through the little cabin, until the night echoed with it; it spit and hissed from the mast heads, aggressively, incisively, as he continued to move the contact-lever up and down, slow and strong, and sent his call arrowing out through the darkness: "Pt-Ba," "Pt-Ba." But interpolated between each call for "Puerto Locombia" was an equally impatient and anxious Morse prayer for "Cruiser Princeton—Cruiser Princeton."
"That's almost enough to wake the dead," he mentally assured himself as he adjusted his "set," switched off, and pressed the phones close in to his ears.
Through these phones, as he listened, came a sound as feeble and minute as the tick of that
