He raised his shaking hands and gripped at the air.

"Ah-h! When me ould silf is back, I'll shtand up to ye. Tis a promise,
McTee. Black McTee, Black McTee--I'll make ye Red McTee--red as the
palms av me hands."

McTee tied the cold, wet towel around Harrigan's forehead.

"I'll kill you by inches, Harrigan. You'll read hell in my eyes before
your end. Drink this!"

He raised Harrigan's almost lifeless head and forced the neck of a
whisky bottle between his teeth.

"Ah-h!" said Harrigan, blinking and coughing after the strong liquor
had burned its way down his throat. "The feel av your throat under me
thumbs was sweeter than the touch av a colleen's hand, McTee! I'm dead
for shlape!"

And instantly his eyes closed; his breathing was deep and sonorous. 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