Harrigan | Page 6

Instead he looked on a double row of bunks heaped with swarthy
quilts, and the boatswain with a silent gesture indicated that one of
these belonged to Harrigan. He went to it without a word and sat down
cross-legged to survey his new quarters. It was more like the
bunkhouse of a western ranch than anything else he had been in, but all
reduced to a miniature, cramped and confined.
Now his eyes grew accustomed to the dim, unpleasant light which
came from a single lantern hanging on the central post, and he began to
make out the faces of the sailors. An oily-skinned Greek squatted on

the bunk to his left. To his right was a Chinaman, marvelously
emaciated; his lips pulled back in a continual smile, meaningless, like
the grin of a corpse.
Opposite was the inevitable Englishman, slender, good-looking, with
pale hair and bright, active eyes. Harrigan had traveled over half the
world and never failed to find at least one subject of John Bull in any
considerable group of men. This young fellow was talking with a giant
Negro, his neighbor. The black man chattered with enthusiasm while
the Englishman listened, nodding, intent.
One thing at least was certain about this crew: the Negro, the Chinaman,
the Greek, even the Englishman, despite his slender build, they were all
hard, strong men.
The cook brought out supper in buckets--stews, chunks of stale bread,
tea. As they ate, the sailors grew talkative.
"Slide the slum this way," said the Englishman.
The Negro pushed the bucket across the deck with his foot.
"A hard trip," went on the first speaker.
"All trips on the Mary Rogers is hard," rumbled a voice.
"Aye, but Black McTee is blacker'n ever today."
"He belted the bos'n with a rope end," commented the Negro.
"He ain't human. This is my last trip with him. How about you, John?
You got a lump on your jaw yet where he cracked you for breakin' that
truck."
This was to the Chinaman, who answered in a soft guttural as if there
were bubbling oil in his throat: "Me sail two year Black McTee, an'--"
To finish his speech he passed a tentative hand across his swollen jaw.

"And you'll sail with him till you die, John," said the Englishman.
"When a man has had Black McTee for a boss, he'll want no other. He's
to other captains what whisky is to beer."
The white teeth of the Negro showed. "Maybe Black McTee won't live
long," he suggested.
There was a long silence. It lasted until the supper was finished. It
lasted until the men slid into their bunks. And Harrigan knew that every
man was repeating slowly to himself: "Maybe Black McTee won't live
long."
"Not if this gang goes after him," muttered Harrigan, "and yet--"
He remembered the fight in Ivilei and the heaving shoulders which
showed above the heads of the swarming soldiers. With that picture in
his mind he went to sleep.
They were far out of sight of land in the morning and loafing south
before the trade wind, with a heavy ground swell kicking them along
from behind. Harrigan saw the Mary Rogers plainly for the first time.
She was small, not more than fifteen hundred or two thousand tons, and
the dingiest, sootiest of all tramp freighters. He had little time to make
observations.
In the first place all hands washed down the decks, some of the men in
rubber boots, the others barefooted, with their trousers rolled up above
the knees. Harrigan was one of this number. The cool water from the
hose swished pleasantly about his toes. He began to think better of life
at sea as the wind blew from his nostrils the musty odors of the
forecastle. Then the bos'n, with the suggestion of a grin in his eyes,
ordered him up to scrub the bridge. He climbed the steps with a bucket
in one hand and a brush in the other. There stood McTee leaning
against the wheelhouse and staring straight ahead across the bows. He
seemed quite oblivious of his presence until, having finished his job,
Harrigan started back down the steps.
"D'you call this clean?" rumbled McTee. "All over again!"

And Harrigan dropped to his knees without protest and commenced
scrubbing again. As he worked, he hummed a tune and saw the narrow
jaw of McTee jut out. Harrigan smiled.
He had scarcely finished stowing his bucket and brush away when the
bos'n brought him word that he was wanted in the fireroom. Masters's
face was serious.
"What's the main idea?" asked Harrigan.
The bos'n cast a worried eye fore and aft.
"Black McTee's breakin' you," he said; "you're getting the whip."
"Well?"
"God help you, that's all. Now get below."
There was a certain fervency