“My hair’ll be snow white,” the chief engineer complained to Dave during a breathing spell on deck. “There’s something uncanny aboot yon machinery. It’s foolin’ us all the time. The thing is possessed. It waits patiently until we get one part patched up, before breaking out in a fresh place, but no sooner we’ve got her running than she gets up to her old games. I’m only waitin’ for one of the cylinder heads to blow off or the boilers to bust, and then I’ll be able to light my pipe in peace and watch the rest of her lie doon and die.” But the boilers held and the cylinders never faltered. Worse trouble was waiting around the corner for the unhappy Scot. Right in the middle of the Bight, when the wind was blowing big guns and giant waves were careering along, the _Kingfisher_ gave a plunge which left her propeller in mid air for the space of several seconds before there was time to shut off steam. MacTavish, feeling the vibration, knew what was happening, and burst into a cold perspiration. If it had occurred on any other ship, he would not have been so concerned; but his “rattle-box” was in no condition to stand treatment of that kind. A few hours later his worst fears were realized. An oiler reported that a crack had developed in the main shaft, near the propeller. The ship was promptly stopped, and MacTavish made a careful inspection of the damage. For once, the captain was deeply concerned. He, too, went down into the bottom of the ship, to see how bad the trouble was. “She’s cracked at a flaw in the steel,” MacTavish declared, “and it’s only a question of how much strain is put on her before she rips right off as clean as a carrot. You’ll have to run at half speed, anyway, Cap’n. If you make Fremantle, you’ll be lucky.” For days after that the _Kingfisher_ crawled westwards, with the engineers nursing her “scrap iron” jealously. She managed to scrape out of the Bight and was already within a few hundred miles of Fremantle when a southerly gale struck her in all its fury. Suddenly, while the ship was pitching, she shuddered convulsively. There was a grating noise in the engine-room, and then silence. The propeller-shaft had parted, and they were at the mercy of the sea. The only thing that was of the slightest assistance was a fore-and-aft sail which had been rigged, but the canvas was rotten, and it split from top to bottom in a violent gust. For the first time in his life Dave was facing real danger. Helpless as a log, the _Kingfisher_ ran before the storm hour after hour. The crew could now do nothing but wait for a possible shifting of the wind. It kept steadily in one quarter, however, and, when darkness fell, the hopes of every one on board fell to zero. Rockets were sent up, but there was no answering signal. All through the night Dave, with the rest of the crew, stood on deck, anxiously looking for something in the nature of a miracle to happen.