under the captain's clubbed hands. Two spots of red glowed on McTee's
ribs and the wolf pack moistened their lips.

"Come again, Harrigan, for I've smelled the meat, not tasted it."

"It tastes red--like this."

And feinting at McTee's body, he suddenly straightened and smashed both
hands against the captain's mouth. McTee's head jarred back under the
impact. The wolf pack murmured. The captain made a long step, waited
until Harrigan had leaped back to the side of the deck to avoid the
plunge, and then, as the deck heaved up to give added impetus to his
lunge, he rushed. The angle of the deck kept the Irishman from taking
advantage of his agility. He could not escape. One pile-driver hand
cracked against his forehead--another thudded on his ribs. He leaped
through a shower of blows and clinched.

He was crushed against the rail. He was shaken by a quick succession of
short arm punches. But anything was preferable to another of those
long, driving blows. He clung until his head cleared. Then he shook
himself loose and dropped, as if dazed, to one knee. McTee's bellow of
triumph filled his ears. The captain bore down on him with outstretched
hands to grapple at his throat, but at the right instant Harrigan rose
and lurched out with stiff arm. The punch drove home to the face with a
shock that jarred Harrigan to his feet and jerked McTee back as if
drawn by a hand. Before he recovered his balance, Harrigan planted half
a dozen punches, but though they shook the captain, they did not send
him down, and Harrigan groaned.

McTee bellowed again. It was not pain. It was not mere rage. It was a