Crang made himself comfortable in a cushioned chair. He sat chuckling maliciously, as he stared up at the towering hull that twinkled with lights above him—and then the chuckle died away, and little red spots came and burned in his sallow cheeks, and his lips worked, and his hands curled until the nails bit into the palms.
He lost track of time.
A man came into the pilot house, and gave the wheel a spin.
“We're off!” said the man heartily. “You've had tough luck, I hear.”
Crang's fingers caressed his bruised and swollen throat.
“Yes,” said Crang with a thin smile; “but I think somebody is going to pay the bill—in full.”
The tug was heading toward New York.