The answer was covered by the autocratic clang on the engine-room gong.  The propeller went on beating slowly:  one, two, three; one, two, three—­with pauses as if hesitating on the turn.  The gong clanged time after time, and the water churned this way and that by the blades was making a great noisy commotion alongside.  Mr. Massy did not move.  A shore-light on the other bank, a quarter of a mile across the river, drifted, no bigger than a tiny star, passing slowly athwart the circle of the port.  Voices from Mr. Van Wyk’s jetty answered the hails from the ship; ropes were thrown and missed and thrown again; the swaying flame of a torch carried in a large sampan coming to fetch away in state the Rajah from down the coast cast a sudden ruddy glare into his cabin, over his very person.  Mr. Massy did not move.  After a few last ponderous turns the engines stopped, and the prolonged clanging of the gong signified that the captain had done with them.  A great number of boats and canoes of all sizes boarded the off-side of the Sofala.  Then after a time the tumult of splashing, of cries, of shuffling feet, of packages dropped with a thump, the noise of the native passengers going away, subsided slowly.  On the shore, a voice, cultivated, slightly authoritative, spoke very close alongside—­

“Brought any mail for me this time?”

“Yes, Mr. Van Wyk.”  This was from Sterne, answering over the rail in a tone of respectful cordiality.  “Shall I bring it up to you?”

But the voice asked again—­

“Where’s the captain?”

“Still on the bridge, I believe.  He hasn’t left his chair.  Shall I . . .”

The voice interrupted negligently.

“I will come on board.”

“Mr. Van Wyk,” Sterne suddenly broke out with an eager effort, “will you do me the favor . . .”

The mate walked away quickly towards the gangway.  A silence fell.  Mr.
Massy in the dark did not move.

He did not move even when he heard slow shuffling footsteps pass his cabin lazily.  He contented himself to bellow out through the closed door—­

“You—­Jack!”

The footsteps came back without haste; the door handle rattled, and the second engineer appeared in the opening, shadowy in the sheen of the skylight at his back, with his face apparently as black as the rest of his figure.

“We have been very long coming up this time,” Mr. Massy growled, without changing his attitude.

“What do you expect with half the boiler tubes plugged up for leaks.”  The second defended himself loquaciously.

“None of your lip,” said Massy.

“None of your rotten boilers—­I say,” retorted his faithful subordinate without animation, huskily.  “Go down there and carry a head of steam on them yourself—­if you dare.  I don’t.”

“You aren’t worth your salt then,” Massy said.  The other made a faint noise which resembled a laugh but might have been a snarl.