"The strength that counts is the strength of spirit, and this girl has your own fighting spirit." "Do you think so?" "Yes; I saw it in her eyes." Henshaw shook his head sadly. "No; they're the eyes of her grandmother, and she had no fighting spirit. I think I married her more for pity than for love. Her grandmother died by that same disease, McTee." The latter gave up the struggle and spent an hour soothing the excited old man. When he managed to escape, he went up and down the deck breathing deeply of the fresh air. For the moment Harrigan was safe, but it would not be long before he would force Henshaw to deliver the order. Into this reverie broke the voice of Jerry Hovey. "Beg your pardon, Captain McTee." The Scotchman turned to the bos'n with the smile still softening his stern lips. "Well?" he asked good-naturedly. "Let me have half a dozen words, sir." "A thousand, bos'n. What is it?" Now, Hovey remembered what Harrigan had said about coming straight to the point, and he appreciated the value of the advice. Particularly in speaking to a man like McTee, for he recognized in the Scotchman some of the same strong, blunt characteristics of Harrigan. "Every man who's sailed the South Seas knows Captain McTee," he began. "None of that, lad. If you know me, you also know that I'm called Black McTee--and for a reason." "More than that, sir, we know that whatever men say of you, your word has always been good." "Well?" "I'm going to ask you to give me your word that what I have to say, if it doesn't please you, will go out one ear as fast as it goes in the other." "You have my word." "And maybe your hand, sir?" McTee, stirred by curiosity, shook hands. Hovey began: "Some of us have sailed a long time and never got much in the pocket to show for it." "Yes, that's true of me." "But there's none of us would turn our backs on the long green?" McTee grinned. "Well, sir, I have a little plan. Suppose you knew an old man--a man so old, sir, that he was sure to die in a year or so. And suppose he had one heir--a girl who was about to die--" "Mutiny, bos'n," said McTee coldly. But the eye of Hovey was fully as cold; he knew his man. "Well?" he queried. "Talk ahead. I've given you my word to keep quiet." "Suppose this old man had a lot of money. Would it be any crime--any great crime to slip a little of that long green into our pockets?" Two pictures were in McTee's mind--one of the safe piled full of gold, and the other of the half-crazed old skipper with his dying granddaughter. After all, it was only a matter of months before Henshaw would be dead, for certainly he would not long survive the death of Beatrice. Even a small portion of that hoard would enable him to leave the sea--to woo Kate as she must be wooed before he could win her. Golden would be the veil with which he could blind her eyes to the memory of Harrigan after he had removed the Irishman from his path.