"Better come aboard," advised the mate. "No. I'm all right." The Scotchman pushed himself back from the boat and fell into an easy stroke. Nevertheless, there was power in it, for he reached the Hannah before the rescued miner had been helped to the deck. A dozen passengers, crowded on the lower deck, pushed forward eagerly to see. Among them was Selfridge, his shirt and collar torn loose at the neck and his immaculate checked suit dusty and disheveled. He was wearing a pair of up-to-date Oxford tans. The Scotch-Canadian shook himself like a Newfoundland dog. He looked around with sardonic amusement, a grin on his swollen and disfigured face. "Quite a pleasant welcome home," he said ironically, his cold eyes fixed on a face that looked as if it might have been kicked by a healthy mule. "Eh, Trelawney?" The Cornishman glared at him, and turned away with a low, savage oath. "Are you hurt, Mr. Macdonald?" asked the captain. "Hurt! Not at all, Captain. I cut myself while I was shaving this morning--just a scratch," was the ironic answer. "There's been some dirty work going on. I'll see the men are punished, sir." "Forget it, Captain. I'll attend to that little matter." His jaunty, almost insolent glance made the half-circle again. "Sorry you were too late for the party, gentlemen,--most of you. I see three or four of you who were 'among those present.' It was a strictly exclusive affair. And now, if you don't mind, I'll say good-night." He turned on his heel, went up the stairway to the deck above, and disappeared into his stateroom. The rescued miner, propped against the cabin wall where he had been placed, broke into sudden excited protest. "Ach! He tried to drown me. Mein head--he hold it under the water." "Ain't that just like a Swede?" retorted the mate in disgust. "Mac saves his life. Then the roughneck kicks because he got a belly full of Yukon. Sure Mac soused him some. Why shouldn't he?" "I ain't no Swede," explained the big miner sullenly. The mate did not think it worth his while to explain that "Swede" was merely his generic term of contempt for all foreigners. CHAPTER III THE GIRL FROM DROGHEDA Gordon Elliot was too much of a night owl to be an early riser, but next morning he was awakened by the tramp of hurried feet along the deck to the accompaniment of brusque orders, together with frequent angry puffing and snorting of the boat. From the quiver of the walls he guessed that the Hannah was stuck on a sandbar. The mate's language gave backing to this surmise. Divided in mind between his obligation to the sleeping passengers and his duty to get the boat on her way, that officer spilled a good deal of subdued sulphurous language upon the situation. "All together now. Get your back into it. Why are you running around like a chicken without a head, Reeves?" he snapped. Evidently the deck hands were working to get the Hannah off by poling.