"Here! Here in this room! Take that couch in the corner over there. It has a good set of springs. With gold in my hands. Here are some blankets. With gold in my hands and my brain. Though you don't need much covering in this latitude. I would raise her from the grave."
He went about, interspersing his remarks to McTee with half-audible murmurs addressed to his own ears.
"Is this," thought McTee, "the Shark of the South Seas?"
A knock came and the door opened. A fat sailor in an oilskin hat stood at the entrance.
"The cook ain't put out no lunch for the night watches, sir," he whined.
Henshaw had stood with his back turned as the door opened. He turned now slowly toward the open door. McTee could not see his face nor guess at its expression, but the moment the big sailor caught a glimpse of his skipper's countenance, he blanched and jumped back into the night, slamming the door behind him. That sight recalled something to McTee.
"One thing more, captain," he said. "What of Harrigan? Do we break him between us?"
"Aye, in your own way!"
"Good! Then start him scrubbing the bridge and send him down to the fireroom afterwards, eh?"
"It's done. Why do you hate him, McTee? Is it the girl?"