"The _Heron_, four thousand tons, White Henshaw, skipper." "White Henshaw?" cried McTee in almost reverent tones. "The same. Old White still sticks to his wheel. He's as hard a man as you, McTee, in his own way." They were pulling close to the freighter by this time, and Salvain gave quick orders to lay the boat alongside. In another moment they stood on the deck, where a tall man in white clothes advanced to meet them. "Good fishing, sir," said Salvain. "We've picked up three shipwrecked people, with Angus McTee among them." "Black McTee!" cried the other, and even in the dim light he picked out the towering form of the Scotchman. "It took a wreck to bring us together, Captain Henshaw," said McTee, "but here we are, I've combed the South Seas for ten years for the sake of meeting you." "H-m!" grunted Henshaw. "We'll drink on the strength of that. Come into the cabin." They trooped after him, Salvain and the three rescued, and stood in the roomy cabin, the captain and the first mate dapper and cool in their white uniforms, the other three marvelously ragged. Barefooted, their hair falling in jags across their foreheads, their muscles bulging through the rents in their shirts, McTee and Harrigan looked battered but triumphant. Kate Malone might have been the prize which they had safely carried away. She was even more ragged than her companions, and now she withdrew into a shadowy corner of the cabin and shook the long, loose masses of her hair about her shoulders. CHAPTER 16 The dark eye of Pietro Salvain was quick to note her condition. He was a rather small, lean-faced man with the skin drawn so tightly across his high cheekbones that it glistened. He was emaciated; his energy consumed him as hunger consumes other men. "There is a berth for me below," he said to Kate. "You must take my room. And I have a cap, some silk shirts, a loose coat which you might wear--so?" "This is Miss Malone, Salvain," said McTee before she could answer. "You are very kind, Mr. Salvain," she said. He smiled and bowed very low, and then opened the door for her; but all the while his glance was upon McTee, who stared at him so significantly that before following Kate through the door, Salvain shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture of resignation. The captain turned to Harrigan. Henshaw was very old. He was always so erect and carried his chin so high that the loose skin of his throat hung in two sharp ridges. In spite of the tight-lipped mouth, the beaklike nose, and the small, gleaming eyes, there was something about his face which intensified his age. Perhaps it was the yellow skin, dry as the parchment from an Egyptian tomb and criss-crossed by a myriad little wrinkles. "And you, sir?" he said to the Irishman. "One of my crew," broke in McTee carelessly. "He'll be quite contented in the forecastle. Eh, Harrigan?" "Quite," said Harrigan, and his glance acknowledged the state of war.