Part 8 (1/2)

”Lie down here,” said the captain, rising quickly. ”You're sick.”

He forced Harrigan onto the bunk and stretched him out at full length.

The Irishman clenched his hands and fought against the sleep which crept over his senses.

”There's fire in my brain,” muttered Harrigan, ”an' it's trying to burn its way out.”

McTee dipped a towel in cool water.

”I kept the rest of them away,” went on the Irishman. ”When you woke up, I wanted you to hear why I didn't finish you.”

He raised his shaking hands and gripped at the air.

”Ah-h! When me ould silf is back, I'll shtand up to ye. Tis a promise, McTee. Black McTee, Black McTee--I'll make ye Red McTee--red as the palms av me hands.”

McTee tied the cold, wet towel around Harrigan's forehead.

”I'll kill you by inches, Harrigan. You'll read h.e.l.l in my eyes before your end. Drink this!”

He raised Harrigan's almost lifeless head and forced the neck of a whisky bottle between his teeth.

”Ah-h!” said Harrigan, blinking and coughing after the strong liquor had burned its way down his throat. ”The feel av your throat under me thumbs was sweeter than the touch av a colleen's hand, McTee! I'm dead for shlape!”

And instantly his eyes closed; his breathing was deep and sonorous. The captain watched him for a long moment, then sat down and laying a hand on the sleeping man's wrist, he counted the pulse carefully. It was irregular and feeble.

”Time is all he needs,” muttered McTee to himself, and he sat staring before him, dreaming. ”A fool can live well,” he was thinking, ”but it takes a great man to die well. Harrigan will make a fine death.” In the meantime the big Irishman slept heavily, and Black McTee tended him well, keeping the towel cool and wet about his forehead. The pulse was gaining rapidly in strength and regularity; sleep seemed to act upon Harrigan as food acts upon a starved man. At times he smiled, and McTee could guess at the dream which caused it. He was dreaming of killing McTee, and McTee sat by and understood, and smiled with deep content.

He, also, was tasting his thoughts of the battle-to-be when, without any warning rap, the door swung open and the burly form of Bos'n Masters appeared.

”The first mate--” he began.

”Did you knock?”

”I've got no time to waste, the first mate--”

McTee rose. In the frank, bold eyes of the bos'n he read the open revolt, and understood. He had been beaten in open battle; his crew felt that they were liberated by the victory of their champion.

”Who told you to enter without knocking?” he broke in.

”I don't need telling,” said the dauntless bos'n. ”The first mate's drunk an'--”

The heavy fist of McTee landed on Masters's mouth and hurled him in a heap into the corner of the cabin. The captain seized him by the nape of the neck and jerked him back to his feet, blinking and gasping, thoroughly subdued.

”Get out and come in as you should.”

The bos'n fled. A moment later a timid knock came at the door and McTee bade him enter. He stepped in, cap in hand, his eyes on the floor.

”The first mate's drunk, sir, an' runnin' amuck with the s.h.i.+p. He's at the wheel an' he won't leave it. We've nearly sc.r.a.ped one reef already.

You know this ain't any open sea, sir. There's green water everywhere.”