The captain watched him for a long moment, then sat down and laying a hand on the sleeping man's wrist, he counted the pulse carefully.

It was irregular and feeble.
"Time is all he needs," muttered McTee to himself, and he sat staring before him, dreaming.

"A fool can live well," he was thinking, "but it takes a great man to die well.

Harrigan will make a fine death." In the meantime the big Irishman slept heavily, and Black McTee tended him well, keeping the towel cool and wet about his forehead.

The pulse was gaining rapidly in strength and regularity; sleep seemed to act upon Harrigan as food acts upon a starved man.