"I'd forgotten," murmured Henshaw. "When I started to write that order this morning--just as I was putting pen to paper--in came Sloan with the message from the doctors saying that Beatrice was in a critical situation. It may be, captain, that this message is bad luck for me, eh?" "Nonsense," said McTee easily, gripping his hand with rage, while he fought to control his voice. "You mustn't let superstitions run away with you." "So! So!" frowned Henshaw. "You're a young man to give me advice, McTee. I've followed superstitions all my life. I tell you there's something in those star-gazing devils of the South Seas. They know things that aren't in the books." "What about the old fool who prophesied that you'd die by fire at sea?" Henshaw shivered, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at McTee. "How do you know he's an old fool, eh? We haven't reached port yet--not by a long sight!" "Well," said McTee, with a carefully assumed carelessness, "this ship belongs to you--you're the skipper; but on a boat I was captain of, no damned engineer would pull my beard and tell me to rightabout. They never got away with a line of chatter like that when Black McTee was speaking to them. Never!" At this comparison the face of Henshaw grew marvelously evil. "McTee," he said, "men step lively when you speak to them--but they jump out of their skins when they hear White Henshaw's voice." "That's what I've heard," said the other dauntlessly, "but d'you think Campbell ever would have taken this chance if he didn't know you're not what you used to be?" For reply Henshaw set his teeth and dipped the pen into the ink. As he poised it above the paper, Sloan appeared at the door calling: "One minute, captain!" The captain turned livid and rose slowly, crumpling the paper as he did so and letting it drop to the floor. "Out with it!" he muttered in a hoarse whisper. "She's worse again! Damn you, McTee, I told you this message was bad luck!" The wireless operator was much puzzled and glance from the Scotchman to his skipper. "I only wanted to know, sir, if you wish to send an answer to this last wireless. Any congratulations?" "No--get out!" And as Sloan fled from the door with a wondering side glance at McTee, Henshaw sank back into his chair, picked up the paper on which he was about to write, and tore it into small bits. Not until this task was finished was he able to speak to McTee. "D'you see now? Is there nothing in my superstitions? Why, sir, just holding that pen over this piece of damnable paper brought Sloan on the run to my door. If I'd written a single word, he'd of had a message from the doctors saying that Beatrice was dying. I know!" "You really think," began McTee, and some of his furious impatience crept into his voice--"you really think that writing on that piece of paper with your pen would have brought in Sloan with a wireless message from the mainland?" Henshaw shook his head slowly.