Henshaw jerked erect in his chair. "Weak lungs? Who said she had weak lungs? McTee, you're a fool! A little cold on the chest, that's all that's the matter with the girl! The doctors have made the sickness— they and their rotten medicines! And now they're making sport out of White Henshaw. I'll skin them alive, I will!"
McTee lighted a cigar and nodded judiciously as he puffed it.
"Very good idea, Henshaw. If you want me to, I'll go along and help you out."
"You're a brick, McTee. Maybe I'll need you. Getting old; not what I used to be."
"I see you're not," said McTee boldly.
Henshaw scowled: "What do you mean?"
"That affair of Harrigan. He's still going scot-free, you know."
"Right! McTee, I'm getting feeble-minded, but I'll make up for lost time."
He caught up pen and paper, while McTee drew a long breath of relief. A moment later he was astonished to note that the captain had not written a single letter.
"I'd forgotten," murmured Henshaw. "When I started to write that order this morning—just as I was putting pen to paper—in came Sloan with the message from the doctors saying that Beatrice was in a critical situation. It may be, captain, that this message is bad luck for me, eh?"