Harrigan

Long before this, Harrigan had reported to the bos’n, burly Jerry Hovey, and had been assigned to a bunk into which he fairly dived and fell asleep in the posture in which he landed.  In the morning he tumbled out with the other men and became the object of a crossfire of questions from the curious sailors who wanted to know all the details of the wreck of the Mary Rogers and the life on the island.  He was saved from answering nine-tenths of the chatter by a signal from the bos’n, who beckoned Harrigan to a stool a little apart from the rest of the crew.  Jerry Hovey was a cheery fellow of considerable bulk, with an habitual smile.  That smile went out, however, when he talked with Harrigan, and the Irishman became conscious of a pair of steady, alert gray eyes.

“Look here,” said Hovey, and he talked out of the corner of his mouth with a skill which would have become an old convict of many terms, “I’ve had it put to me straight that you’re a hard one.  Is that the right dope?”

Harrigan smiled.

“Because if it is,” said Hovey, “we’re the best gang at bustin’ up these hard guys that ever walked the deck of a ship.  If you try any side steps and fancy ducking of your work, there’ll be a disciplinin’ comin’ your way at a gallop.  Are you wise?”

Harrigan still smiled, but the coldness of his eye made the bos’n thoughtful.  He was not one, however, to be easily cowed.  Now he balled his fist and smote it against the palm of his other hand with a slap that resounded.

“On my own hook,” he stated, “I can sling my mitts with the best of them, an’ I’m always lookin’ for work in that line.  Now I’m sayin’ all this in private, sonny, to let you know that Black McTee has wised up the skipper about you, and I’m keepin’ a weather eye open.  If you make one funny move, I’ll be on your back.”

“All right, Jerry.”

“Don’t call me Jerry, you swab!  I’m the bos’n.”

“Look me in the eye, Jerry Hovey, me dear.  If you so much as bat the lashes av wan eye in lookin’ at me, I’ll bust ye in two pieces like a sea biscuit, Jerry, an’ I’ll eat the biggest half an’ throw the rest into the sea.  Ar-r-re ye wise?”

Now, Jerry Hovey was a very big man, and he had thrashed men of larger bulk than Harrigan.  But there was something about the Irishman’s thickness of shoulder and length of arm that gave him pause.  So first of all Jerry grew very thoughtful indeed, and then his habitual smile returned.  Nevertheless, Harrigan did not forget those gray, alert eyes.

The bos’n went on in a gentler voice:  “I was tryin’ you out, Harrigan.  I’ll lay to it that the cap’n has the wrong idea about you.  But will you tell me why he’s ridin’ you?”

“Sure.  It’s Black McTee.  Before the Mary Rogers went down, McTee was tryin’ to break me.  I guess he’s asked this White Henshaw to try a hand.  What have they got lined up for me?”

“You’re to scrub down the bridge an’ while your hands are still soft you go down to the fireroom an’ pass coal.  It’ll tear your hands off, that work.”

Harrigan was gray, but he answered.  “That’s an old story.  McTee worked me like that all the time.”

“An’ you didn’t break?” gasped Hovey.

Harrigan grinned, but his smile stopped when he noticed a certain calculation in the face of the bos’n.

“Mate,” said Hovey, “I guess you’re about ripe for something I’m goin’ to say to you one of these days.  Now go up to the bridge an’ scrub it down.”

With the prospect of the long torture before him once more, Harrigan in a daze picked up the bucket of suds to which he was pointed and went with his brush toward the bridge.  Through the mist which enveloped his brain broke wild thoughts—­to steal upon McTee at the first meeting and hurl his hated body overboard.  Yet even in his bewildered condition he realized what such an act would mean.  Murder on land is bad enough, but murder at sea is doubly damned by the law.  It was in the power of White Henshaw to hang him up to the mast.

Revolving these dismal prospects with downward head, he climbed from the waist of the ship to the cabin promenade, and there a voice hailed him, and he turned to see Kate Malone approaching.  She was all in white—­cap, canvas shoes, silk shirt absurdly lose at the throat, and linen coat with the sleeves turned far back so that her hands would not be enveloped.  The duck trousers were also taken up several reefs.

“Good morning,” she said, and held out her hand.

He watched her smile wistfully, and then made a little gesture with his own hands, one burdened with the scrubbing brush and the other with the bucket.

“What does it mean?”

“Hell,” said Harrigan.

“Explain.”

“It’s McTee again, damn his eyes!”

“Do you mean to say they’ve started to treat you as they did on the Mary Rogers?  The scrubbing and then the work in the fireroom?”

“Right.”

She stamped her foot in impotent fury.

“What manner of man is he, Dan?  He’s not all brute; why does he treat you like this?”

The Irishman smiled.

She cried with increasing anger:  “What can I do?”

“Make your skin yellow an’ your hair gray an’ walk with no spring in your step.  He wants to break me now because of you.”

There was moist pity in her eyes, yet they gleamed with excitement at the thought of this battle of the Titans for her sake.

“I will go to him,” she said after a moment, “and tell him that you mean nothing to me.  Then he will stop.”

The cold, incurious eyes studied her without passion, and once more he smiled.

“He’ll not stop.  Whether you like me or not, Kate, doesn’t count.  One of us’ll go down, an’ you’ll be for the one that’s left.  He knows it—­I know it.”

“Harrigan!” called the voice of McTee from the bridge, and the tall Scotchman lifted his cap to Kate.

“I’m the slave,” said Harrigan, “and there’s the whip.  Good-by.”

She stamped her foot with an almost childish fury, saying:  “Someday he shall regret this brutal tyranny.  Good-by, Dan, and good luck!”

She took his hand in both of hers, but her eyes held spitefully upon the bridge, as if she hoped that McTee would witness the handshake; the captain, however, had turned his back upon them.

Dan muttered to himself as he climbed the bridge:  “Did she do that to anger McTee or to please me?” And the thought so occupied his mind that he paid no attention to the Scotchman when he reached the bridge.  He merely dropped to his knees and commenced scrubbing.  McTee, in the meanwhile, loitered about the bridge as if on his own ship.  In due time Harrigan drew near, the suds swishing under his brush.  The Irishman, remembering suddenly, commenced to hum a tune.

“The old grind, eh, Harrigan?” said McTee.

The Irishman, humming idly still, looked up, calmly surveyed the captain, and then went on as if he had heard merely empty wind instead of words.

“After the scrubbing brush the shovel,” went on McTee, but still Harrigan paid no attention.  He rose when his task was completed and made his eyes gentle as if with pity while he gazed upon McTee.

“I’m sorry for you, McTee; you’ve made a hard fight; it’s strange you’ve got no ghost of a chance of winnin’.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Couldn’t you hear her when she talked to me?”

“I could not.”

“Couldn’t you see her face?  It was written there as plain as print.”

McTee cleared his throat.

“What was written there?”

“The thing you want to see.  When she took my hand in both of hers—­”

“Hell!”

“Ah-h, man, it was wonderful!  The scrubbing brush an’ the shovel—­they mean nothin’ to me now.”

“Harrigan, you’re lying.”

The latter dropped his scrubbing brush into the bucket of suds and stood with arms akimbo studying the captain.

“For a smart man, McTee, you’ve been a fool.  I could of gone down on me knees an’ begged to do what you’ve done.  Don’t you see?  You’ve thrown her with her will or against it into me arms.  I’m poor Harrigan, brave and downtrodden; you’re Black McTee once more, the tyrant.  She looks sick at the mention of your name.”

“I never dreamed you’d go whining to her.  I thought you were a man; you’re only a spineless dog, Harrigan!”

“Am I that?  She pities me, McTee, an’ from pity it’s only one step to something bigger.  Can you trust me to lead her that one step?  You can!”

“If I went to her and told her how you boasted of having won her?”

“She wouldn’t believe what you said about me if you swore it with both hands on the Bible.  Be wise, McTee.  Give up the game.  You’ve lost her, me boy!  For every day that I work in the fireroom I’ll come to her an’ show her the palms of me bleedin’ hands an’ mention your name.  An’ for every day I work in the hole the hate of you will burn blacker into her heart.”

“I’d rather have her hate than her pity.”

“You’ll have both; her hate for torturin’ Harrigan; her pity for lettin’ the devil in you get the best of the man.  You’re done for, McTee.”

Each one of the short phrases was like a whip flicked across the face of McTee, but he would not wince.

“You’ve said enough.  Now get down to the fireroom.  I’ve had Henshaw prepare the chief engineer for your coming.”

Harrigan turned.

“Wait!  Remember when you’re in hell that the old compact still holds.  Your hand in mine and a promise to be my man will end the war.”

Only the low laughter of the Irishman answered as he made his way down to the deck.