Harrigan

They were past the thick of the mob now and they dodged rapidly among the cottages until the clamor of police fell away to a murmur behind them, and they swung out onto the narrow, dark street which led back toward the heart of Honolulu.  For ten minutes they strode along without a word.  Under the light of a street lamp they stopped of one accord.

“I’m McTee.”

“I’m Harrigan.”

The gripping of the hands was more than fellowship; it was like a test of strength which left each uncertain of the other’s resources.  They were exactly opposite types.  McTee was long of face, with an arched, cruel nose, gleaming eyes, heavy, straight brows which pointed up and gave a touch of the Mephistophelian to his expression, a narrow, jutting chin, and lips habitually compressed to a thin line.  It was a handsome face, in a way, but it showed such a brutal dominance that it inspired fear first and admiration afterward.

Such a man must command.  He might be only the boss of a gang of laborers, or he might be a financier, but never in any case an underling.  Altogether he combined physical and intellectual strength to such a degree that both men and women would have stopped to look at him, and once seen he would be remembered.

On the other hand, in Harrigan one felt only force, not directed and controlled as in McTee, but impulsive, irregular, irresponsible, uncompassed.  He carried a contradiction in his face.  The heavy, hard-cut jaw, the massive cheekbones, the stiff, straight upper lip indicated merely brutal endurance and energy, but these qualities were tempered by possibilities of tenderness about the lips and by the singular lights forever changing in the blue eyes.  He would be hard for the shrewdest judge to understand, for the simple reason that he did not know himself.

In looking at McTee, one asked:  “What is he?” In looking at Harrigan, the question was:  “What will he become?”

“Stayin’ in town long?” asked Harrigan, and his voice was a little wistful.

“I’m bound out tonight.”

“So long, then.”

“So long.”

They turned on their heels into opposite streets without further words, with no thanks given for service rendered, with no exchange of congratulations for the danger they had just escaped.  That parting proved them hardened knights of the road which leads across the world and never turns back home.

Harrigan strode on full of thought.  His uncertain course brought him at last to the waterfront, and he idled along the black, odorous docks until he came to a pier where a ship was under steam, making ready to put out to sea.  The spur touched the heart of Harrigan.  The urge never failed to prick him when he heard the scream of a steamer’s horn as it put to sea.  It brought the thoughts of far lands and distant cities.

He strolled out to the pier and watched the last ropes cast loose.  The ship was not large, and even in the dark it seemed dingy and dilapidated.  He guessed that, big or small, this boat would carry her crew to some distant quarter of the world, and therefore to a place to be desired.

A strong voice gave an order from the deck—­a hard voice with a ring in it like the striking of iron against iron.  Harrigan glanced up with a start of recognition, and by the light of a swinging lantern he saw McTee.  If he were in command, this ship was certainly going to a far port.  Black water showed between the dock and the ship.  In a moment more it would be beyond reach, and that thought decided Harrigan.  He made a few paces back, noted the aperture in the rail of the ship where the gangplank was being drawn in, then ran at full speed and leaped high in the air.

The three sailors at the rail shouted their astonishment as Harrigan struck the edge of the gangplank, reeled, and then pitched forward to his knees.  He rose and shook himself like a cat that has dropped from a high fence to the ground.

“What’re you?”

“I’m the extra hand.”

And Harrigan ran up the steps to the bridge.  There he found McTee with the first and second mates.

“McTee,” he said, “I came on your ship by chance an’ saw you.  If you can use an extra hand, let me stay.  I’m footfree an’ I need to be movin’ on.”

Even through the gloom he caught the glint of the Scotchman’s eye.

“Get off the bridge!” thundered McTee.

“But I’m Harrigan, and—­”

McTee turned to his first and second mates.

“Throw that man off the bridge!” he ordered.

Harrigan didn’t wait.  He retreated down the steps to the deck and went to the rail.  A wide gap of swarthy water now extended between the ship and the dock, but he placed his knee on the rail ready to dive.  Then he turned and stood with folded arms looking up to the bridge, for his mind was dark with many doubts.  He tapped a passing sailor on the shoulder.

“What sort of an old boy is the captain?”

He made up his mind that according to the answer he would stay with the ship or swim to the shore, but the sailor merely stared stupidly at him for a moment and then grinned slowly.  There might be malice, there might be mere ridicule in that smile.  He passed on before another question could be asked.

“Huh!” grunted Harrigan.  “I stay!”

He kept his eyes fixed on the bridge, remaining motionless at the rail for an hour while the glow of Honolulu grew dimmer and dimmer past the stern.  There were lights in the after-cabin and he guessed that the ship, in a small way, carried both freight and passengers.  At last McTee came down the steps to the deck and as he passed Harrigan snapped:  “Follow me.”

He led the way aft and up another flight of steps to the after-cabin, unlocked a door, and showed Harrigan into the captain’s room.  Here he took one chair and Harrigan dropped easily into another.

“Now, what ‘n hell was your line of thinkin’, McTee,” he began, “when you told me to—­”

“Stand up!” said McTee.

“What?”

“Stand up!”

Harrigan rose very slowly.  His jaw was setting harder and harder, and his face became grim.

“Harrigan, you took a chance and came with me.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“Sure you didn’t, but if you think you can treat me like a swine and get away with it—­”

It was wonderful to see the eyes of McTee grow small.  They seemed to retreat until they became points of light shining from the deep shadow of his brow.  They were met by the cold, incurious light of Harrigan’s stare.

“You’re a hard man, Harrigan.”

He made no answer, but listened to the deep thrum of the engines.  It seemed to him that the force which drove the ship was like a part of McTee’s will, a thing of steel.

“And I’m a hard man, Harrigan.  On this ship I’m king.  There’s no will but my will; there’s no right but my right; there’s no law but my law.  Remember, on land we stood as equals.  On this ship you stand and I sit.”

The thin lips did not curve, and yet they seemed to be smiling cruelly, and the eyes were probing deep, deep, deep into Harrigan’s soul, weighing, measuring, searching.

“When we reach land,” said Harrigan, “I got an idea I’ll have to break you.”

He raised his hands, which trembled with the restrained power of his arms, and moved them as though slowly breaking a stick of wood.

“I’ve broken men—­like that,” he finished.

“When I’m through with you, Harrigan, you’ll take water from a Chinaman.  You’re the first man I’ve ever seen who could make me stop and look twice.  I need a fellow like you, but first I’ve got to make you my man.  The best colt in the world is no good until he learns to take the whip without bucking.  I’m going to get you used to the whip.  This is frank talk, eh?  Well, I’m a frank man.  You’re in the harness now, Harrigan; make up your mind:  Will you pull or will you balk?  Answer me!”

“I’ll see you damned!”

“Good.  You’ve started to balk, so now you’ll have to feel the whip.”

He pulled a cord, and while they waited, the relentless duel of the eyes continued.  A flash of instinct like a woman’s intuition told Harrigan what impulse was moving McTee.  He knew it was the same thing which makes the small schoolboy fight with the stranger; the same curiosity as to the unknown power, the same relentless will to be master, but now intensified a thousandfold in McTee, who looked for the first time, perhaps, on a man who might be his master.  Harrigan knew, and smiled.  He was confident.  He half rejoiced in looking forward to the long struggle.

A knock came and the door opened.

“Masters,” said McTee to the boatswain, “we’re three hands short.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here are the three hands.  Take them forward.”