"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—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."