One thing at least was certain about this crew: the Negro, the Chinaman, the Greek, even the Englishman, despite his slender build, they were all hard, strong men. The cook brought out supper in buckets--stews, chunks of stale bread, tea. As they ate, the sailors grew talkative. "Slide the slum this way," said the Englishman. The Negro pushed the bucket across the deck with his foot. "A hard trip," went on the first speaker. "All trips on the _Mary Rogers_ is hard," rumbled a voice. "Aye, but Black McTee is blacker'n ever today." "He belted the bos'n with a rope end," commented the Negro. "He ain't human. This is my last trip with him. How about you, John? You got a lump on your jaw yet where he cracked you for breakin' that truck." This was to the Chinaman, who answered in a soft guttural as if there were bubbling oil in his throat: "Me sail two year Black McTee, an'--" To finish his speech he passed a tentative hand across his swollen jaw. "And you'll sail with him till you die, John," said the Englishman. "When a man has had Black McTee for a boss, he'll want no other. He's to other captains what whisky is to beer." The white teeth of the Negro showed. "Maybe Black McTee won't live long," he suggested. There was a long silence. It lasted until the supper was finished. It lasted until the men slid into their bunks. And Harrigan knew that every man was repeating slowly to himself: "Maybe Black McTee won't live long." "Not if this gang goes after him," muttered Harrigan, "and yet--" He remembered the fight in Ivilei and the heaving shoulders which showed above the heads of the swarming soldiers. With that picture in his mind he went to sleep. They were far out of sight of land in the morning and loafing south before the trade wind, with a heavy ground swell kicking them along from behind. Harrigan saw the _Mary Rogers_ plainly for the first time. She was small, not more than fifteen hundred or two thousand tons, and the dingiest, sootiest of all tramp freighters. He had little time to make observations. In the first place all hands washed down the decks, some of the men in rubber boots, the others barefooted, with their trousers rolled up above the knees. Harrigan was one of this number. The cool water from the hose swished pleasantly about his toes. He began to think better of life at sea as the wind blew from his nostrils the musty odors of the forecastle. Then the bos'n, with the suggestion of a grin in his eyes, ordered him up to scrub the bridge. He climbed the steps with a bucket in one hand and a brush in the other. There stood McTee leaning against the wheelhouse and staring straight ahead across the bows. He seemed quite oblivious of his presence until, having finished his job, Harrigan started back down the steps. "D'you call this clean?" rumbled McTee. "All over again!"