“I’m tired out,” said McTee suddenly.
“Where shall I bunk, captain?”
“Here! Here in this room! Take that
couch in the corner over there. It has a good
set of springs. With gold in my hands. Here
are some blankets. With gold in my hands and
my brain. Though you don’t need much covering
in this latitude. I would raise her from the grave.”
He went about, interspersing his remarks to McTee
with half-audible murmurs addressed to his own ears.
“Is this,” thought McTee, “the Shark
of the South Seas?”
A knock came and the door opened. A fat sailor
in an oilskin hat stood at the entrance.
“The cook ain’t put out no lunch for the
night watches, sir,” he whined.
Henshaw had stood with his back turned as the door
opened. He turned now slowly toward the open
door. McTee could not see his face nor guess
at its expression, but the moment the big sailor caught
a glimpse of his skipper’s countenance, he blanched
and jumped back into the night, slamming the door
behind him. That sight recalled something to McTee.
“One thing more, captain,” he said.
“What of Harrigan? Do we break him between
us?”
“Aye, in your own way!”
“Good! Then start him scrubbing the bridge
and send him down to the fireroom afterwards, eh?”
“It’s done. Why do you hate him,
McTee? Is it the girl?”
“No; the color of his hair. Good night.”
Long before this, Harrigan had reported to the bos’n,
burly Jerry Hovey, and had been assigned to a bunk
into which he fairly dived and fell asleep in the
posture in which he landed. In the morning he
tumbled out with the other men and became the object
of a crossfire of questions from the curious sailors
who wanted to know all the details of the wreck of
the Mary Rogers and the life on the island.
He was saved from answering nine-tenths of the chatter
by a signal from the bos’n, who beckoned Harrigan
to a stool a little apart from the rest of the crew.
Jerry Hovey was a cheery fellow of considerable bulk,
with an habitual smile. That smile went out,
however, when he talked with Harrigan, and the Irishman
became conscious of a pair of steady, alert gray eyes.
“Look here,” said Hovey, and he talked
out of the corner of his mouth with a skill which
would have become an old convict of many terms, “I’ve
had it put to me straight that you’re a hard
one. Is that the right dope?”
Harrigan smiled.
“Because if it is,” said Hovey, “we’re
the best gang at bustin’ up these hard guys
that ever walked the deck of a ship. If you try
any side steps and fancy ducking of your work, there’ll
be a disciplinin’ comin’ your way at a
gallop. Are you wise?”
Harrigan still smiled, but the coldness of his eye
made the bos’n thoughtful. He was not one,
however, to be easily cowed. Now he balled his
fist and smote it against the palm of his other hand
with a slap that resounded.
