The banter gave the captain a shrewd inspiration. He leaned, and catching one of Harrigan's hands with a quick movement, turned it palm up. It was as he suspected; the palm, though red from the effect of the strong suds and still scarcely healed after the torment of the _Mary Rogers_, was nevertheless manifestly unharmed by the labor which it was supposed Harrigan had performed the day before. The hand was wrenched away and a balled fist held under McTee's nose. "If you're curious, Angus, look at me knuckles, not me palm. It's the knuckles you'll feel the most, cap'n." CHAPTER 22 But McTee, deep in thought, was walking from the bridge. He went straight to the hole of the ship and questioned some of the firemen, and they told him that Harrigan had done no work passing coal the day before; Campbell, it appeared, had taken him for some special job. With this tidings the Scotchman hastened back to Henshaw. "The game's slipping through our hands, captain," he said. "Harrigan?" queried Henshaw. "Aye. He didn't pass a shovelful of coal in the hole yesterday." "Tut, tut," answered the other with a wave of the hand. "I sent orders to Campbell, and told him what sort of a man he could expect to find in Harrigan." "I've just talked to the firemen. They say that Harrigan didn't handle a single pound of coal. That ought to be final." Henshaw went black. "It may be so. I've given more rope to old Campbell than to any man that ever sailed the seas with White Henshaw, and it may be he's using the rope now to hang himself. We'll find out, McTee; we'll find out! Where's Harrigan now?" "Gone below a while ago after he finished scrubbing down the bridge." "We'll speak with Douglas. Come along, McTee. There's nothing like discipline on the high seas." He went below, murmuring to himself, with McTee close behind him. Strange sounds were coming from the room of the chief engineer, sounds which seemed much like the strumming of a guitar. "He's playing his songs," grinned Henshaw, and he chuckled noiselessly. "Listen! We'll give him something to sing about--and it'll be in another key. Ha-ha!" He tasted the results of his disciplining already, but just as he placed his hand on the knob of the door, another sound checked him and made him turn with a puzzled frown toward McTee. It was a ringing baritone voice which rose in an Irish love song. "What the devil--" began Henshaw. "You're right," nodded McTee. "It's the devil--Harrigan. Open the door!"