"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. CHAPTER 18 "There's times for truth an' there's times for lying," murmured Harrigan, as he stowed away the bucket and brush and started down for the fireroom, "an' this was one of the times for lyin'. He's sick for the love of her, an' he's hatin' the thought of Harrigan." So he was humming a rollicking tune when he reached the fireroom. It was stifling hot, to be sure, but it was twice as large as that of the Mary Rogers. The firemen were all glistening with sweat. One of them, larger than the rest and with a bristling, shoebrush mustache like a sign of authority, said to the newcomer: "You're Harrigan?" He nodded. "The chief wants to see you, boss, before you start swingin' the shovel." "Where's the chief's cabin?" "Take him up, Alex," directed the big fireman, and Harrigan followed one of the men up the narrow ladder and then aft. He was grateful for this light respite from the heat of the hole, but his joy faded when the man opened a door and he stood at last before the chief, Douglas Campbell, who looked up at the burly Irishman in a long silence. The scion of the ancient and glorious clan of the Campbells had fallen far indeed. His face was a brilliant red, and the nose, comically swollen at the end, was crossed with many blue veins. Like Milton's _Satan_, however, he retained some traces of his original brightness. Harrigan knew at once that the chief engineer was fully worthy of joining those rulers of the south seas and harriers of weaker men, McTee and White Henshaw. "Stand straight and look me in the eye," said Campbell, and in his voice was a slight "bur-r-r" of the Scotch accent. Harrigan jerked back his shoulders and stood like a soldier at attention.