"Mr. Harrigan," he said, "I'm honored by knowing you."
Harrigan stared and accepted the hand with caution; there was still battle in his eyes.
"And can you send me over?" he asked doubtfully.
"I can. As I said before, we've raised a small fund for just this purpose."
He drew out a piece of paper and commenced taking down the particulars of Harrigan's name and birth and other details. Then a short typewritten note signed by the consul ended the interview. He gave Harrigan directions about how he could reach a shipping agent on the eastern coast, handed over the note, and the Irishman stepped out of the little office already on his way to the world war. He took no pleasure in his resolution, but wandered slowly back toward the hotel with downward head. He would speak a curt farewell and step out of the lives of the two. It would be very simple unless McTee showed some exultation, but if he did—Here Harrigan refused to think further.
It was well after sunset when he crossed the veranda, and at the door he found McTee striding up and down.
"Harrigan," said McTee.
"Well?", growled Harrigan.
"Stand over here close to me, and keep your face shut while I'm speaking. It won't take me long."
The words were insulting enough, but the voice which spoke them was sadly subdued.