“Who is that person?” Captain Desmond O'Hara demanded, pointing to the semiconscious Mr. Henckel, who was moaning and saying things in his mother tongue.
“That,” said Mr. Reardon with a familiar wink, “was a fine, decent German until I operated on him!”
“So I observed. And who might you be?”
“Me name is Terence P. Reardon, an' I'm the chief engineer av the United Shtates steamer Narcissus, av San Francisco.”
“Ah! An Irish-American, eh?”
Mr. Reardon looked down at the deck, smiled a cunning little smile and looked up at Captain O'Hara. “Well, sor,” he declared, “I had me hyphen wit' me whin I shipped; as late as yestherd'y afthernoon 'twas in good worrkin' ordher; but what wit' the exertion av chasin' our Gerrman crew round the decks, faith I've lost me hyphen, an' I'm thinkin' the skipper's lost his too. That's him forninst ye. For the prisent he's in dhrydock awaitin' repairs, which leaves me in command av the ship. And since he's in no condition to go to his shtate-room an' unlock the ship's safe, an' sorra wan av me knows the combination, the divil a look will ye have at our papers. I'll save time an' throuble for us all be tellin' ye now that we've ten t'ousand tons av soft coal undher deck, that we cleared from Norfolk, Virginia, for Manila or Batavia, Pernambuco for ordhers, an' that we're a couple av t'ousand miles off our course. So confiscate the ship an' be damned to ye! Only I'm hopin' ye'll not be above takin' a bit av advice from wan who knows. There's a Gerrman fleet not far off, an' if ye shtop to monkey wit' us, faith ye may live to regret it—an' ye may not.”
Captain the Hon. Desmond O'Hara smiled sweetly. “Divil a fear,” he said, in no way cast down. “We met the beggars off the Falklands yesterday and sunk them all but the Dresden. She slipped away from us in the dark, making for the mainland, and we were looking for her when we saw your searchlight cutting up such queer didos, so the Panther dropped behind to investigate. Had it not been for your searchlight we would have missed you.”
“An' be the same token a little dead Englishman signalled ye.” Mr. Reardon gave another hitch to his dungarees. “Sor,” he said doggedly, “I never t'ought I'd live to see the day I'd want to cheer a British victh'ry—but I do.” He glanced down at his right hand and shook his head. “Englishmen that ye are,” he continued, “I'll not offer ye a hand like that—much as I want to shake hands wit' ye.”
“Faith, don't let that worry you, Mr. Reardon. I'm not an Englishman.”
“In the divil's name, you're not an—an—”