“Don’t worry, ma’am,” gently spoke Johnny Kent as he ceremoniously shook Miss Hollister’s hand. “Engines and pumps are provokin’ critturs and they’re always getting out of kilter.” He paused outside to ask Captain O’Shea: “What’s the answer? Do we win or lose? There’s bad news from below. The bunker coal is awash. The pump is liable to quit on me ’most any time.” “I have overhauled the charts, Johnny, and there is a bit of a coral key marked down thirty miles from our present position, bearing sou’-sou’west. I have changed me course to head for it.” “Thirty miles! Five hours or more at the speed we’re makin’. It will be a close finish, Cap’n Mike.” “Life seems to be a game of close finishes for you and me, Johnny.” The _Fearless_ wallowed sluggishly over a rolling, foamy, blue sea. Already the water in the holds had diminished her natural buoyancy. The waves leaped through her broken bulwarks and flung themselves across the deck. The crew and the remaining Cubans had a listless, discouraged demeanor. Their energy was deadened by misfortune. The voyage was ill-fated. Jack Gorham, by contrast, undertook whatever duty came handiest with a kind of machine-like, routine fidelity, unhurried, efficient, his melancholy countenance reflecting neither fear nor impatience. Now and then Jiminez emerged from the stoke-hole to sluice his huge body with pails of salt water. At such times Gorham crossed the deck to slap the negro on his bare back and speak words of approval in broken Spanish. The responsive grin of Jiminez showed every big, white tooth in his head. He had found a master whom he vastly respected, and there was no ill-will between them. Long before the thirty miles had been run down Captain O’Shea was searching the sea with his glasses to find the tiny coral islet where he hoped to find refuge. It was out of the track of steamer traffic, and so far from the Cuban coast that the danger of discovery by the Spanish navy seemed fairly remote. The chart failed to indicate any harbor, but O’Shea had no expectation of saving his ship. He would drive her ashore and try to put his people on the beach. At length he was able to descry a low, sandy strip almost level with the sea, along which the breakers flashed white and green. It was the key, and as the _Fearless_ moved nearer it was seen that the vegetation comprised only a few ragged bushes. Desolate, sun-baked, and wind-swept was the place, but it was dry land, and better than the deep sea in a foundering ship. Captain O’Shea laid down his glasses and called Van Steen. “’Tis not what I expected, but the _Fearless_ is done for,” said he. “We have fresh water and stores to last some time. And I have faith enough in me luck to feel sure we will be picked off that bit of a key yonder. Please ask the ladies to pack their traps, and you will put life-belts around them.”