“I can’t get steam enough to do any better,” replied Richards rather doggedly, for he did not like the manner in which the captain had spoken to him. “Can’t you get all the steam you want?” asked O’Hara, in a more moderate tone; for he began to see that his manner was a little too arbitrary. “I have called down into the fire-room twenty times for more steam, and I have been down myself; but I don’t seem to make myself understood,” replied Richards in a more affable tone, corresponding to that of the captain. “Those blackguards of firemen are not doing their duty!” exclaimed O’Hara, rushing down to the fire-room, believing the difficulty was altogether in the matter of language. He spoke to the Italian in his own language; and the fellow shrugged his shoulders, and looked insolent, though he said nothing to which exception could be taken. “Fill up your furnaces!” shouted the captain, repeating the words in French for the benefit of the ones who did not understand Italian. “We are making but eight knots an hour; and we shall lose the rest of the fleet at this rate!” The men heaved in a few shovels of coal; and O’Hara, believing he had said and done all that was necessary, left the fire-room. He went upon the poop-deck, where he found Tom Speers; and both of them gazed out into the dense fog, and listened for any sounds that might indicate the situation of the rest of the fleet. “Do you make out any thing, Speers, darlint?” asked the captain. “Nothing at all,” replied Tom. “In my opinion we have seen the last we shall of the schooners till we get to Funchal.” “Don’t say that, Tom: I would rather lose my command than part company with the rest of the fleet.” “I don’t see why you need mourn about the matter. We know where we are bound, and we can get there without any help from the schooners,” added Tom. “If we lose them they will say we did it on purpose.” “They can’t say that; for our log will show just how it happened, after we compare it with those of the other vessels.” The young captain was very impatient; and, after waiting half an hour, he ordered the officer of the watch to heave the log again. It was done, and the report was only seven knots. “Faix, it seemed to me she was going at a snail’s pace,” said O’Hara, now thoroughly roused by the tardy movement of the vessel. “I don’t understand it,” added Tom. At this moment one of the crew who had been detailed to act as an oiler, because he had a taste for working on machinery, came upon the upper deck. “Mr. Richards directs me to report to the captain that the engine is making but thirty revolutions a minute, and that the firemen won’t do any better,” said the oiler. “That’s what the matter! Bad luck to those same blackguards of firemen! We should have done better with some of the fellows in the fire-room!” exclaimed O’Hara, as he hastened down to the main deck. He had hardly reached the foot of the ladder before Mr. Frisbone hailed him, coming out of the cabin.