Now the Dreadnought's a-sailing the Atlantic so wide,
Where the high, roaring seas roll along her black side.
Her sailors like lions walk the deck to and fro,
She's the Liverpool packet--O Lord let her go!
--Song of the Flash Packet.
On a day in early August the Nequasset came walloping laboriously
up-coast through a dungeon fog, steel rails her dragging burden, caution
her watchword.
The needle of her indicator marked "Half speed," and it really meant
half speed. Captain Zoradus Wass made scripture of the rules laid
down by the Department of Commerce and Labor. There was no tricky
slipping-over under his sway--no finger-at-nose connivance between the
pilot-house and the chief engineer's grille platform. No, Captain Wass
was not that kind of a man, though the fog had held in front of him two
days, vapor thick as feathers in a tick, and he had averaged not much
over six nautical miles an hour, and was bitterly aware that the rate of
freight on steel rails was sixty-five cents a ton.
"And as I've been telling you, at sixty-five cents there's about as much
profit as there would be in swapping hard dollars from one hand to the
other and depending on what silver you can rub off," said Captain Wass
to First-mate Mayo.
The captain was holding the knob of the whistle-pull In constant clutch.
Regularly every minute Nequasset's prolonged blast sounded, strictly
according to the rules of the road.
Her voice started with a complaining squawk, was full toned for a few
moments, then trailed off into more querulousness; the timbre of that
tone seemed to fit with Captain Wass's mood.
"It's tough times when a cargo-carrier has to figger so fine that she
can lose profit on account of what the men eat," he went on. "If you're
two days late, minding rules in a fog, owners ask what the tophet's
the matter with you! This kind of business don't need steamboat men any
longer; it calls for boarding-house keepers who can cut sirloin steak
off'n a critter clear to the horn, and who are handy in turning sharp
corners on left-overs. I'll buy a book of cooking receets and try to
turn in dividends."
The captain was broad-bowed, like the Nequasset, he sagged on short
legs as if he carried a cargo fully as heavy as steel rails, his white
whiskers streamed away from his cutwater nose like the froth kicked up
by the old freighter's forefoot. He chewed slowly, conscientiously and
continuously on tobacco which bulged in his cheek; his jaws, moving as
steadily as a pendulum swings, seemed to set the time for the isochronal
whistle-blast. Sixty ruminating jaw-wags, then he spat into the fog,
then the blast--correct to the clock's tide!