Blow the Man Down - A Romance of the Coast

Now the Dreadnought's a-sailing the Atlantic so wide,

Where the high, roaring seas roll along her black side.

Her sailors like lions walk the deck to and fro,

She's the Liverpool packet--O Lord let her go!

--Song of the Flash Packet.

On a day in early August the Nequasset came walloping laboriously

up-coast through a dungeon fog, steel rails her dragging burden, caution

her watchword.

The needle of her indicator marked "Half speed," and it really meant

half speed. Captain Zoradus Wass made scripture of the rules laid

down by the Department of Commerce and Labor. There was no tricky

slipping-over under his sway--no finger-at-nose connivance between the

pilot-house and the chief engineer's grille platform. No, Captain Wass

was not that kind of a man, though the fog had held in front of him two

days, vapor thick as feathers in a tick, and he had averaged not much

over six nautical miles an hour, and was bitterly aware that the rate of

freight on steel rails was sixty-five cents a ton.

"And as I've been telling you, at sixty-five cents there's about as much

profit as there would be in swapping hard dollars from one hand to the

other and depending on what silver you can rub off," said Captain Wass

to First-mate Mayo.

The captain was holding the knob of the whistle-pull In constant clutch.

Regularly every minute Nequasset's prolonged blast sounded, strictly

according to the rules of the road.

Her voice started with a complaining squawk, was full toned for a few

moments, then trailed off into more querulousness; the timbre of that

tone seemed to fit with Captain Wass's mood.

"It's tough times when a cargo-carrier has to figger so fine that she

can lose profit on account of what the men eat," he went on. "If you're

two days late, minding rules in a fog, owners ask what the tophet's

the matter with you! This kind of business don't need steamboat men any

longer; it calls for boarding-house keepers who can cut sirloin steak

off'n a critter clear to the horn, and who are handy in turning sharp

corners on left-overs. I'll buy a book of cooking receets and try to

turn in dividends."

The captain was broad-bowed, like the Nequasset, he sagged on short

legs as if he carried a cargo fully as heavy as steel rails, his white

whiskers streamed away from his cutwater nose like the froth kicked up

by the old freighter's forefoot. He chewed slowly, conscientiously and

continuously on tobacco which bulged in his cheek; his jaws, moving as

steadily as a pendulum swings, seemed to set the time for the isochronal

whistle-blast. Sixty ruminating jaw-wags, then he spat into the fog,

then the blast--correct to the clock's tide!