He held a little folded paper in his hand. At
sight of it Henshaw turned in his chair and faced
Sloan with a wistful glance.
“Good?”
“Not very, sir.”
Henshaw rose slowly and frowned like the king on the
messenger who bears tidings of the lost battie.
“Then very bad?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Very well. Let me have the message.
You may go.”
He took the slip of paper cautiously, as if it were
dangerous in itself, and then called back the operator
as the latter reached the door.
“Come back a minute. Sloan, you’re
a good boy—a very good boy. Faithful,
intelligent; you know your business. H-m!
Here—here’s a five spot”—he
slipped the money into Sloan’s hand—“and
you shall have more when we touch port. Now this
message, my lad—you couldn’t have
made any mistake in receiving it? You couldn’t
have twisted any of the words a little?”
“No mistake, I’m sure, sir. It was
repeated twice.”
“That makes it certain, then—certain,”
muttered Henshaw. “That is all, Sloan.”
As the latter left the cabin, the old captain went
back to his chair and sat with the paper resting upon
his knee, as if a little delay might change its import.
“I am growing old, McTee,” he said at
last, apologetically, “and age affects the eyes
first of all. Suppose you take this message, eh?
And read it through to me—slowly—I
hate fast reading, McTee.”
The big Scotchman took the slip of paper and read
with a long pause between each word:
Beatrice—failing—rapidly—&
shy;hemorrhage—this—morning—very—weak.
The paper was snatched from his hand, and Henshaw
repeated the words over and over to himself:
“Weak—failing—hemorrhage—the
fools! A little bleeding at the nose they call
a hemorrhage!”
McTee broke in: “A good many doctors are
apt to make a case seem more serious than it is.
They get more credit that way for the cure, eh?”
“God bless you, lad! Aye, they’re
a lot of damnable curs! Burning at sea—death
by fire at sea! He was right! The old devil
was right! Look, McTee! I’m safe on
my ship; I’m rich; but still I’m burning
to death in the middle of the ocean.”
He shook the Scotchman by his massive shoulder.
“Go get Sloan—bring him here!”
McTee rose.
“No! Don’t let me lay eyes on him—he
brought me this! Go yourself and carry him a
message to send. The doctors are letting her die;
they think she has no money. Send them this message:
“Save Beatrice at all costs. Call in
the greatest doctors. I will pay all bills ten
times over.
“Quick! Why are you waiting here?
You fool! Run! Minutes mean life or death
to her!”
McTee hastened back to the wireless house in the after-part
of the ship. To Sloan he gave the message, even
exaggerating it somewhat. After it was sent,
he said: “Look here, my boy, do you realize
that it’s dangerous to bring the captain messages
like that last one you carried to him?”
