The banter gave the captain a shrewd inspiration.
He leaned, and catching one of Harrigan’s hands
with a quick movement, turned it palm up. It
was as he suspected; the palm, though red from the
effect of the strong suds and still scarcely healed
after the torment of the Mary Rogers, was nevertheless
manifestly unharmed by the labor which it was supposed
Harrigan had performed the day before. The hand
was wrenched away and a balled fist held under McTee’s
nose.
“If you’re curious, Angus, look at me
knuckles, not me palm. It’s the knuckles
you’ll feel the most, cap’n.”
But McTee, deep in thought, was walking from the bridge.
He went straight to the hole of the ship and questioned
some of the firemen, and they told him that Harrigan
had done no work passing coal the day before; Campbell,
it appeared, had taken him for some special job.
With this tidings the Scotchman hastened back to Henshaw.
“The game’s slipping through our hands,
captain,” he said.
“Harrigan?” queried Henshaw.
“Aye. He didn’t pass a shovelful
of coal in the hole yesterday.”
“Tut, tut,” answered the other with a
wave of the hand. “I sent orders to Campbell,
and told him what sort of a man he could expect to
find in Harrigan.”
“I’ve just talked to the firemen.
They say that Harrigan didn’t handle a single
pound of coal. That ought to be final.”
Henshaw went black.
“It may be so. I’ve given more rope
to old Campbell than to any man that ever sailed the
seas with White Henshaw, and it may be he’s using
the rope now to hang himself. We’ll find
out, McTee; we’ll find out! Where’s
Harrigan now?”
“Gone below a while ago after he finished scrubbing
down the bridge.”
“We’ll speak with Douglas. Come along,
McTee. There’s nothing like discipline
on the high seas.”
He went below, murmuring to himself, with McTee close
behind him. Strange sounds were coming from the
room of the chief engineer, sounds which seemed much
like the strumming of a guitar.
“He’s playing his songs,” grinned
Henshaw, and he chuckled noiselessly. “Listen!
We’ll give him something to sing about—and
it’ll be in another key. Ha-ha!”
He tasted the results of his disciplining already,
but just as he placed his hand on the knob of the
door, another sound checked him and made him turn
with a puzzled frown toward McTee. It was a ringing
baritone voice which rose in an Irish love song.
“What the devil—” began Henshaw.
“You’re right,” nodded McTee.
“It’s the devil—Harrigan.
Open the door!”
The captain flung it open, and they discovered the
two worthies seated at ease with a black bottle and
two glasses at hand. Campbell, in the manner
of a musical critic of some skill, leaned back in a
chair with his brawny arms folded behind his head
and his eyes half closed. Harrigan, tilted back
hi a chair, rested his feet on the edge of a small
table and swept the guitar which lay on his lap.
In the midst of a high note he saw the ominous pair
standing in the door, and the music died abruptly
on his lips.
