He left the table long before the others had finished. There was no one on deck as he emerged from the dining saloon, so he walked leisurely round past the captain's cabin, whistling the “Cruiskeen Lawn” to let Mike Murphy know who was coming. Evidently Michael assimilated the hint, for there was an envelope on the little window sill as Terence hove abreast of it. He snatched it swiftly away and continued round to his own state-room.
The envelope contained Michael J. Murphy's plan for campaign worked out to the most minute detail, by reason of his absolute knowledge of the customs aboard the ship. Mr. Reardon read the remarkable document and sat lost in admiration; a twinkle leaped to his eyes and a cunning, rather deadly little smile came sneaking round the corners of his broad chin.
“Arrah, but 'tis a beautiful schame,” he soliloquized. “Who but that lad could have t'ought av it? An' here I've been shpendin' the past two hours borrowin' trouble.”
He read and reread the plan of attack, in order to familiarize himself with the details; then he held a match to the document and destroyed it. He considered a moment, and then performed a similar service to his farewell letter to Mrs. Reardon, for the chief engineer of the S.S. Narcissus, of San Francisco, had made up his mind not to die—to-night!
CHAPTER XV
Mr. Schultz, the first assistant, and Mr. von Staden were engaged in coffee and repartee when Terence Reardon thrust his head in at the dining saloon window. He was mildly excited.
“Be the Great Gun av Athlone!” he declared. “I've just been bit be a bedbug—an' I t'ought there wasn't a bedbug in the ship!”
Mr. Schultz looked up, horrified. “Chieve,” he said, “dot is rodden news. Bedbugs! Ach!”