"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. Black McTee is
breakin' him an' he'll be broke before he goes off his nut. Now get to
hell out of here. I ain't slept a wink for ten days."

The fireman went back to his work muttering, and Harrigan sang the rest