His own was returning day by day, for he wore his loin-cloth continuously; but the crew, having worked under orders, did not feel as he did. The completed work satisfied Mr. Wardrop. He would at the last have made shift to run to Singapore, and gone home without vengeance taken to show his engines to his brethren in the craft; but the others and the captain forbade him. They had not yet recovered their self-respect. “It would be safer to make what ye might call a trial trip, but beggars mustn’t be choosers; an if the engines will go over to the hand-gear, the probability—I’m only saying it’s a probability—the chance is that they’ll hold up when we put steam on her.” “How long will you take to get steam?” said the skipper. “God knows! Four hours—a day—half a week. If I can raise sixty pound I’ll not complain.” “Be sure of her first; we can’t afford to go out half a mile, and break down.” “My soul and body, man, we’re one continuous breakdown, fore an’ aft! We might fetch Singapore, though.” “We’ll break down at Pygang-Watai, where we can do good,” was the answer, in a voice that did not allow argument. “She’s _my_ boat, and—I’ve had eight months to think in.” No man saw the _Haliotis_ depart, though many heard her. She left at two in the morning, having cut her moorings, and it was none of her crew’s pleasure that the engines should strike up a thundering half-seas-over chanty that echoed among the hills. Mr. Wardrop wiped away a tear as he listened to the new song. “She’s gibberin’—she’s just gibberin’,” he whimpered. “Yon’s the voice of a maniac.” And if engines have any soul, as their masters believe, he was quite right. There were outcries and clamours, sobs and bursts of chattering laughter, silences where the trained ear yearned for the clear note, and torturing reduplications where there should have been one deep voice. Down the screw-shaft ran murmurs and warnings, while a heart-diseased flutter without told that the propeller needed re-keying. “How does she make it?” said the skipper. “She moves, but—but she’s breakin’ my heart. The sooner we’re at Pygang-Watai, the better. She’s mad, and we’re waking the town.” “Is she at all near safe?” “What do _I_ care how safe she is? She’s mad. Hear that, now! To be sure, nothing’s hittin’ anything, and the bearin’s are fairly cool, but—can ye not hear?” “If she goes,” said the skipper, “I don’t care a curse. And she’s _my_ boat, too.”