“Say,” he said calmly, “we can’t quit yet. The companion-hatch is closed. We must remain here a bit.” “Do you mean that we are battened down?” demanded Isobel, shrilly, and her face lost some of its beauty in an ashen pallor. “Something of the sort, Miss Baring. Anyway, we can’t go on deck.” “But—I insist on being told what is the matter.” The American knew little of ships, but he knew a great deal about mines, and, in a mine, if an accident happens, the man in charge cannot desert his post to give information to those who are anxious for it. So he replied laconically: “Guess the captain will tell us all about it after a while, Miss Baring.” “Que diable! I feel like the rat in the trap,” said Count Edouard, suppressed excitement rendering his English less fluent. At another time the phrase would have sent a ripple of amusement through that cheery company. Now, no one smiled. They knew too well what he meant to pay heed to the mere form of his words. No matter how large or sumptuously equipped the trap, the point of view of the rat was new to them. CHAPTER III. WHEREIN THE CAPTAIN REAPPEARS The fierce hissing of the continuous escape of steam excited alarm in those not accustomed to machinery. Men and women share the unreasoning panic of animals when an unknown force reveals its pent-up fury. They forget that safety-valves are provided, that diminished pressure means less risk; the knowledge that restraint, not freedom, is dangerous comes ever in the guise of a new discovery. The mining engineers, of course, did not share this delusion. “There must be something serious the matter, or they would not be wasting power like that,” murmured the American to one of his fellow-professionals. “A smash-up in the engine-room. Nada es mas seguro,”[1] was the answer. [1] Nothing is more certain. “Wonder if any one is hurt?” The Spaniard bent a little nearer. “What can you expect?” he whispered sympathetically. In the unnatural peacefulness of the ship’s progress, disturbed only by the roar of the superheated vapor, they all heard the opening of a door at the head of the saloon stairway. The third officer appeared—his wet oilskins gleaming and dripping. “Dr. Christobal, the captain wishes to speak to you,” he said. Christobal rose and crossed the saloon. “As you are here, won’t you tell the ladies there is nothing to be afraid of in the mere stopping of the engines?” he suggested. “Oh, the ship is right enough,” was the hasty response. “There has been an accident in the stokehold. That is all.” “Want any help?” demanded the American. “Well—I’ll ask the captain.” Evidently anxious to avoid further questioning, he ran up the companion. Christobal followed, the door was closed and bolted again. “I hate the word ‘accident.’ It covers so many horrid possibilities,” said Isobel. “I am afraid some poor fellows have been injured, and that is why Captain Courtenay sent for Dr. Christobal,” said Elsie.