“What d’you mean?”
“Couldn’t you hear her when she talked
to me?”
“I could not.”
“Couldn’t you see her face? It was
written there as plain as print.”
McTee cleared his throat.
“What was written there?”
“The thing you want to see. When she took
my hand in both of hers—”
“Hell!”
“Ah-h, man, it was wonderful! The scrubbing
brush an’ the shovel—they mean nothin’
to me now.”
“Harrigan, you’re lying.”
The latter dropped his scrubbing brush into the bucket
of suds and stood with arms akimbo studying the captain.
“For a smart man, McTee, you’ve been a
fool. I could of gone down on me knees an’
begged to do what you’ve done. Don’t
you see? You’ve thrown her with her will
or against it into me arms. I’m poor Harrigan,
brave and downtrodden; you’re Black McTee once
more, the tyrant. She looks sick at the mention
of your name.”
“I never dreamed you’d go whining to her.
I thought you were a man; you’re only a spineless
dog, Harrigan!”
“Am I that? She pities me, McTee, an’
from pity it’s only one step to something bigger.
Can you trust me to lead her that one step? You
can!”
“If I went to her and told her how you boasted
of having won her?”
“She wouldn’t believe what you said about
me if you swore it with both hands on the Bible.
Be wise, McTee. Give up the game. You’ve
lost her, me boy! For every day that I work in
the fireroom I’ll come to her an’ show
her the palms of me bleedin’ hands an’
mention your name. An’ for every day I
work in the hole the hate of you will burn blacker
into her heart.”
“I’d rather have her hate than her pity.”
“You’ll have both; her hate for torturin’
Harrigan; her pity for lettin’ the devil in
you get the best of the man. You’re done
for, McTee.”
Each one of the short phrases was like a whip flicked
across the face of McTee, but he would not wince.
“You’ve said enough. Now get down
to the fireroom. I’ve had Henshaw prepare
the chief engineer for your coming.”
Harrigan turned.
“Wait! Remember when you’re in hell
that the old compact still holds. Your hand in
mine and a promise to be my man will end the war.”
Only the low laughter of the Irishman answered as
he made his way down to the deck.
“There’s times for truth an’ there’s
times for lying,” murmured Harrigan, as he stowed
away the bucket and brush and started down for the
fireroom, “an’ this was one of the times
for lyin’. He’s sick for the love
of her, an’ he’s hatin’ the thought
of Harrigan.”
So he was humming a rollicking tune when he reached
the fireroom. It was stifling hot, to be sure,
but it was twice as large as that of the Mary Rogers.
The firemen were all glistening with sweat. One
of them, larger than the rest and with a bristling,
shoebrush mustache like a sign of authority, said
to the newcomer: “You’re Harrigan?”
