"I shall send that order to you in writing. If you refuse to obey then, I shall act!"

He turned on his heel; McTee stayed a moment to smile upon Harrigan, and then followed. As the door closed, Harrigan turned to Campbell and found him sitting, shuddering, with his face buried in his hands. He touched the Scotchman on the shoulder.

"You've done your part, chief. I won't let you do any more. I'm starting now for the hole."

"What?" bellowed Campbell. "Am I no longer the boss of my engine room?

You'll sit here till I tell you to move! d.a.m.n Henshaw and his written orders!"

"If you refuse to obey a written order, he can take your license away from you in any marine court."

"Let it go."

"Ah-h, chief, ye're afther bein' a thrue man an' a bould one, but I'd rather stay the rest av me life in the hole than let ye ruin yourself for me. Whisht, man, I'm goin'! Think no more av it!"

Campbell's eyes grew moist with the temptation, but then the fighting blood of his clan ran hot through his veins.

"Sit down," he commanded. "Sit down and wait till the order comes. It's a fine thing to be chief engineer, but it's a better thing to be a man.

What does Bobbie say?"

And he quoted in a ringing voice: "A man's a man for a' that!"

Afterward they sat in silence that grew more tense as the minutes pa.s.sed, but it seemed that Henshaw, with demoniac cunning, had decided to prolong the agony by delaying his written order and the consequent decision of the engineer. And Harrigan, watching the suffused face of Campbell, knew that the time had come when his will would not suffice to make him follow the dictates of his conscience.

All of which Henshaw knew perfectly well as he sat in his cabin filling the gla.s.s of McTee with choice Scotch.

They sat for an hour or more, chatting, and McTee drew a picture of the pair waiting below in silent dread--a picture so vivid that Henshaw laughed in his breathless way. In time, however, he decided that they had delayed long enough, and took up pen and paper to write the order which was to convince the dauntless Campbell that even he was a slave.

As he did so, Sloan, the wireless operator, appeared at the door, saying: "The report has come, sir."

CHAPTER 23

He held a little folded paper in his hand. At sight of it Henshaw turned in his chair and faced Sloan with a wistful glance.

"Good?"

"Not very, sir."

Henshaw rose slowly and frowned like the king on the messenger who bears tidings of the lost battie.

"Then very bad?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Very well. Let me have the message. You may go."

He took the slip of paper cautiously, as if it were dangerous in itself, and then called back the operator as the latter reached the door.

"Come back a minute. Sloan, you're a good boy--a very good boy.

Faithful, intelligent; you know your business. H-m! Here--here's a five spot"--he slipped the money into Sloan's hand--"and you shall have more when we touch port. Now this message, my lad--you couldn't have made any mistake in receiving it? You couldn't have twisted any of the words a little?"

"No mistake, I'm sure, sir. It was repeated twice."

"That makes it certain, then--certain," muttered Henshaw. "That is all, Sloan."

As the latter left the cabin, the old captain went back to his chair and sat with the paper resting upon his knee, as if a little delay might change its import.

"I am growing old, McTee," he said at last, apologetically, "and age affects the eyes first of all. Suppose you take this message, eh? And read it through to me--slowly--I hate fast reading, McTee."

The big Scotchman took the slip of paper and read with a long pause between each word:

_Beatrice--failing--rapidly--hemorrhage--this--morning--very--weak._

The paper was s.n.a.t.c.hed from his hand, and Henshaw repeated the words over and over to himself: "Weak--failing--hemorrhage--the fools! A little bleeding at the nose they call a hemorrhage!"

McTee broke in: "A good many doctors are apt to make a case seem more serious than it is. They get more credit that way for the cure, eh?"

"G.o.d bless you, lad! Aye, they're a lot of d.a.m.nable curs! Burning at sea--death by fire at sea! He was right! The old devil was right! Look, McTee! I'm safe on my ship; I'm rich; but still I'm burning to death in the middle of the ocean."

He shook the Scotchman by his ma.s.sive shoulder.

"Go get Sloan--bring him here!"

McTee rose.

"No! Don't let me lay eyes on him--he brought me this! Go yourself and carry him a message to send. The doctors are letting her die; they think she has no money. Send them this message:

"_Save Beatrice at all costs. Call in the greatest doctors. I will pay all bills ten times over._

"Quick! Why are you waiting here? You fool! Run! Minutes mean life or death to her!"

McTee hastened back to the wireless house in the after-part of the ship. To Sloan he gave the message, even exaggerating it somewhat.

After it was sent, he said: "Look here, my boy, do you realize that it's dangerous to bring the captain messages like that last one you carried to him?"

"Do I know it? I should say I do! Once the old boy jumped at me like a tiger because I carried in a bad report."

"Could you make up a false message?"

"It's against the law, sir."

"It's not against the law to keep a man from going crazy."

"Crazy?"

"I mean what I say. Henshaw is balancing on the ragged edge of insanity. Mark my words! If the news comes of his granddaughter's death, he'll fall on the other side. Why can't you give him some hope in the meantime? Suppose you work up something this afternoon like this: 'Beatrice rallying rapidly. Doctor's much more hopeful.' What do you say?"

"Crazy!" repeated the wireless operator, fascinated. "If the old man loses his reason, we're all in danger."