He went into the next room and returned carrying a heavy box. This he placed on the desk and took a small, heavy ball of metal from it.
"A bomb?" queried McTee.
"It is. The moment a group gathers, one of these tossed among them will end the mutiny the moment it begins."
McTee handed back the bomb in silence. There was something about this cold-blooded way of speaking of death which was not cruelty—it was something greater—it was an absolute disregard of life.
"Of course," said Henshaw, as he came back from depositing the box in the next room, "there are only half a dozen of those bombs, but that will be enough. The explosion of a couple of them would just about wreck the deck. However, the mutiny will never reach the point of action. I'll see to that. What always ties the hands of the crew is that it lacks real leaders. Hovey, for instance, will turn to water when I say three words about the mutiny to him."
"But Harrigan," said McTee quietly, "will not."
"The Irishman!" Henshaw muttered. "I forgot. McTee, I'm getting old!"
"Only careless," answered the other, "but it's a bad thing to be careless where Harrigan is concerned. A man like that, Henshaw, could lead your mutineers, and lead them well. Hovey told me that every one of the crew looks up to the Irishman."
"He's got to be crippled—or put out of the way," stated Henshaw calmly. "I was a fool. I forgot about Harrigan."
"It may be," said McTee, "that he'll be put out of the way tonight."