Campbell closed and locked the door and turned back to Harrigan with a grin.
"The world's a wide place," he said, "but there's few enough in it who know our Bobbie, God bless him! When I've found one, shall I let him go down to the fireroom? Ha! Now tell me what's wrong between you and McTee."
"I will not talk," said Harrigan with another bold stroke of diplomacy, "till I hear the rest of that song. The true Scotch comes hard on my tongue, but I'll learn it."
"You will, laddie, for your heart's right. Man, man, I'm nothing now, but you should have heard me sing in the old days—"
"When we were in Glasgow," grinned Harrigan.
"In Glasgow," repeated Campbell, and then lifted his head and finished the song. "Now for the story, laddie."
Harrigan started, as though recalled from a dream built up by the music. Then he told briefly the tale of the tyranny aboard the Mary Rogers, now apparently to be repeated.
"So I thought," he concluded, "that it was to be the old story over again—look at my hands!"
He held them out. The palms were still red and deeply scarred. Campbell said nothing, but his jaw set savagely.
"I thought it was to be this all over again," went on Harrigan, "till I
met you, chief. But with you for a friend I'll weather the storm.
McTee's a hard man, but when Scot meets Scot—I'll bet on the
Campbells."