"Harrigan," he growled, "there's a double meaning in what you say, but I'll not think of it. You're no fool, lad, but do not vex me. But say your say. I suppose I'm red enough to be seen by my own light on a dark night. What does Bobbie say? "Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us! "Well, well! I forgave you for the sake of Bobbie! Do you know his rhymes, lad?" A light shone in the eye of Harrigan. He began to sing softly in his musical, deep voice: "Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon--" "No, no, man!" cried Campbell, raising his hand in horror at the sound of the false accent. "It should go like this!" He pulled a guitar out of a case and commenced to strum lightly on it, while he rendered the old song in a voice roughened by ill usage but still strong and true. A knock at the door interrupted him at the climax of his song, and he glared toward the unseen and rash intruder. "What will ye hae?" he roared, continuing the dialect which the song had freshened on his tongue. "The shift in the fireroom is short-handed," said the voice. "That fellow Harrigan has not shown up. Shall we search for him?" "Search for the de'il!" thundered Campbell. "Harrigan is doing a fine piece of work for me; shall I let him go to the fireroom to swing a shovel?" "The captain's orders, sir," persisted the voice rashly. Campbell leaped for the door and jerked it open a few inches. "Be off!" he cried; "or I'll set you passin' coal yourself, my fine lad! What? Will ye be asking questions? Is there no discipline? Mutiny, mutiny--that's what this is!" "Aye, aye, sir!" murmured a rapidly retreating voice. Campbell closed and locked the door and turned back to Harrigan with a grin. "The world's a wide place," he said, "but there's few enough in it who know our Bobbie, God bless him! When I've found one, shall I let him go down to the fireroom? Ha! Now tell me what's wrong between you and McTee." "I will not talk," said Harrigan with another bold stroke of diplomacy, "till I hear the rest of that song. The true Scotch comes hard on my tongue, but I'll learn it." "You will, laddie, for your heart's right. Man, man, I'm nothing now, but you should have heard me sing in the old days--" "When we were in Glasgow," grinned Harrigan. "In Glasgow," repeated Campbell, and then lifted his head and finished the song. "Now for the story, laddie." Harrigan started, as though recalled from a dream built up by the music. Then he told briefly the tale of the tyranny aboard the _Mary Rogers_, now apparently to be repeated. "So I thought," he concluded, "that it was to be the old story over again--look at my hands!" He held them out. The palms were still red and deeply scarred. Campbell said nothing, but his jaw set savagely. "I thought it was to be this all over again," went on Harrigan, "till I met you, chief. But with you for a friend I'll weather the storm. McTee's a hard man, but when Scot meets Scot--I'll bet on the Campbells."