They sat for an hour or more, chatting, and McTee drew a picture of the pair waiting below in silent dread--a picture so vivid that Henshaw laughed in his breathless way. In time, however, he decided that they had delayed long enough, and took up pen and paper to write the order which was to convince the dauntless Campbell that even he was a slave. As he did so, Sloan, the wireless operator, appeared at the door, saying: "The report has come, sir." CHAPTER 23 He held a little folded paper in his hand. At sight of it Henshaw turned in his chair and faced Sloan with a wistful glance. "Good?" "Not very, sir." Henshaw rose slowly and frowned like the king on the messenger who bears tidings of the lost battie. "Then very bad?" "I'm afraid so." "Very well. Let me have the message. You may go." He took the slip of paper cautiously, as if it were dangerous in itself, and then called back the operator as the latter reached the door. "Come back a minute. Sloan, you're a good boy--a very good boy. Faithful, intelligent; you know your business. H-m! Here--here's a five spot"--he slipped the money into Sloan's hand--"and you shall have more when we touch port. Now this message, my lad--you couldn't have made any mistake in receiving it? You couldn't have twisted any of the words a little?" "No mistake, I'm sure, sir. It was repeated twice." "That makes it certain, then--certain," muttered Henshaw. "That is all, Sloan." As the latter left the cabin, the old captain went back to his chair and sat with the paper resting upon his knee, as if a little delay might change its import. "I am growing old, McTee," he said at last, apologetically, "and age affects the eyes first of all. Suppose you take this message, eh? And read it through to me--slowly--I hate fast reading, McTee." The big Scotchman took the slip of paper and read with a long pause between each word: _Beatrice--failing--rapidly--hemorrhage--this--morning--very--weak._ The paper was snatched from his hand, and Henshaw repeated the words over and over to himself: "Weak--failing--hemorrhage--the fools! A little bleeding at the nose they call a hemorrhage!" McTee broke in: "A good many doctors are apt to make a case seem more serious than it is. They get more credit that way for the cure, eh?" "God bless you, lad! Aye, they're a lot of damnable curs! Burning at sea--death by fire at sea! He was right! The old devil was right! Look, McTee! I'm safe on my ship; I'm rich; but still I'm burning to death in the middle of the ocean." He shook the Scotchman by his massive shoulder. "Go get Sloan--bring him here!" McTee rose. "No! Don't let me lay eyes on him--he brought me this! Go yourself and carry him a message to send. The doctors are letting her die; they think she has no money. Send them this message: "_Save Beatrice at all costs. Call in the greatest doctors. I will pay all bills ten times over._