He knows that I'm his master." "I'm glad you didn't tell me his record," she answered.
"I can read it in his eyes." "Lady," said Harrigan, and his head tilted back till the cords stood strongly out at the base of his throat, "I'm afther askin' your pardon for thinkin' ye had ever a dr-rop av hot Irish blood in ye." "Take him below, bos'n," broke in McTee, "and put him in on the night shift in the fireroom." No hours of Harrigan's life were bitterer than that night shift.

The bandages saved his hands from much of the torture of the shovel handle, but there was deep night in his heart.

Early in the morning one of the firemen ran to the chief engineer's room and forced open the door.
"The red-headed man, sir," he stammered breathlessly.
The chief engineer awoke with a snarl.

He had drunk much good Scotch whisky that evening, and the smoke of it was still dry in his throat and cloudy in his brain.
"And what the hell is wrong with the red-headed man now ?" he roared.
"Ain't he doin' two men's work still ?" "Two?
He's doin' ten men's work with his hands rolled in cloth and the blood soakin' through, an' he sings like a devil while he works.

He's gone crazy, sir." "Naw, he ain't," growled the chief; "that'll come later.