McTee, in the meanwhile, loitered about the bridge as if on his own ship.

In due time Harrigan drew near, the suds swishing under his brush.

The Irishman, remembering suddenly, commenced to hum a tune.
"The old grind, eh, Harrigan ?" said McTee.
The Irishman, humming idly still, looked up, calmly surveyed the captain, and then went on as if he had heard merely empty wind instead of words.
"After the scrubbing brush the shovel," went on McTee, but still Harrigan paid no attention.

He rose when his task was completed and made his eyes gentle as if with pity while he gazed upon McTee.
"I'm sorry for you, McTee; you've made a hard fight; it's strange you've got no ghost of a chance of winnin'." "What d'you mean ?" "Couldn't you hear her when she talked to me ?" "I could not." "Couldn't you see her face?
It was written there as plain as print." McTee cleared his throat.
"What was written there ?" "The thing you want to see.

When she took my hand in both of hers--" "Hell!" "Ah-h, man, it was wonderful! The scrubbing brush an' the shovel--they mean nothin' to me now." "Harrigan, you're lying." The latter dropped his scrubbing brush into the bucket of suds and stood with arms akimbo studying the captain.
"For a smart man, McTee, you've been a fool.