It was slow work, for now that the stimulus of action was gone, his weakness grew on him in recurrent waves.

Finally a sound made him turn to see McTee propping himself up on the bunk with one elbow; his eyes, unconfused and steady, looked brightly out at Harrigan.
"You beat me ?" "It was the swing of the deck that rolled you over and broke your grip.
I've stayed to tell you that." "Chances or no chances, you beat me." "Man, you'd have busted my back if it hadn't been for that buck of the ship.

When your hand came away, it took the skin with it." "And that's why you didn't finish me ?" "Aye." "You'll never have the chance again." "I want no chances; I want no help except my own strength as it was before you withered me with your hellfire." "When we stand up again, I'll kill you, Harrigan." "When we stand up again, I'll break you, Black McTee--like a rotten stick." "Lie down here," said the captain, rising quickly.

"You're sick." He forced Harrigan onto the bunk and stretched him out at full length.
The Irishman clenched his hands and fought against the sleep which crept over his senses.
"There's fire in my brain," muttered Harrigan, "an' it's trying to burn its way out." McTee dipped a towel in cool water.
"I kept the rest of them away," went on the Irishman.

"When you woke up, I wanted you to hear why I didn't finish you." He raised his shaking hands and gripped at the air.
"Ah-h! When me ould silf is back, I'll shtand up to ye.