But when he returned to the cabin, he heard no outburst of reproaches from White Henshaw. The door to Henshaw's bedroom was closed, and McTee could hear the captain stirring about in it, working at some nameless task over which he hummed continually, now and then breaking into little snatches of song. McTee was stupefied. He tried to explain to himself by imagining that Henshaw was one of those hard-headed men who live for the present and never waste time thinking of the past. He had made many plans for his granddaughter. Now she was dead, and he dismissed her from his mind.
This explanation might be the truth, but nevertheless the steady humming wore on McTee's nerves until finally he knocked on the door of the inner cabin. It was dusk by this time, and when Henshaw opened the door, he was carrying a lantern.
"You!" he muttered. "Well, captain?"
"You seem busy," said McTee uneasily, shifting under the steady light from the lantern. "I thought I might be able to help you."
"At the work I'm doing no man can help," answered Henshaw.
"What work?"
"I'm calculating profit and loss."
"On your cargo?"
"Cargo? Yes, yes! Profit and loss on this cargo."
And he broke into a harsh laugh. Obviously Henshaw was lying, yet the Scotchman went on with the conversation, eager to draw out some hidden meaning.