George Allan England

“ Can't you patch up the infernal crank shaft, or something?”
“Not without the proper materials, sir. We're as helpless as a cripple in a stevedores' fight.”
“No way to rig canvas?”
“No, sir. No wind, anyhow—dead calm.”
Wingate's fists clenched, twitching. He smote the desk a savage blow.
“You're a hell of a captain, I must say, getting me into a jam like this!” he snarled.
“Accidents will happen, sir,” Jaccard affirmed. Then, after a long pause in the stifling heat of the electric-lighted cabin: “Beg pardon, sir, but you don't look quite yourself this morning. Anything wrong, sir?” ”

“ Jaccard made answer. A tall, broad-chested fellow he, rising thirty-five, blue-eyed and phlegmatic. “I was driving her a little too hard, sir. Wanted to make Beaufort this morning, to pick up the first mate there. It's hard to be short-handed.”
“Crank shaft, eh? Damnation! I never heard anything break!”
“Well, it's broken, anyhow,” the captain calmly asserted. He seemed a shrewd, competent fellow. Wingate had hired him for this cruise on the best of references. “It happened about three bells of the morning watch, at sea.'
“And where are we lying now?” gritted Wingate. ”

“ You can't? But you must!”
“How can I, sir, when the tender isn't here?”
“Not—here?” Wingate sank back in his chair, with eyes fishlike in blank dismay: “What d'you mean, not here?”
“It's gone, sir,” Jaccard explained. “I sent it back to Queensport for materials to mend the break—steel straps, bolts, and—”
Wingate's groan interrupted the skipper's explanation. An expression of intolerable anguish contorted the millionaire's face. Though he sought to control himself, an anguished twitch shuddered through his emaciated body. ”