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But Terence Reardon is a crackajack chief engineer, and I want you to remember that the Blue Star Navigation Company needs him in its business quite as much as it needs Michael J. Murphy, and if you two get scrapping I'm not going to take the trouble to investigate and place the blame. I'll just call you both up on the carpet and make you draw straws to see who quits."
Pack it up and take it to the publishers' to-morrow morning. 'I will. 'And you will ask them to advance you a few pounds? 'I must. But that undertaking was almost as hard to face as a rewriting of the last volume would have been. Reardon had such superfluity of sensitiveness that, for his own part, he would far rather have gone hungry than ask for money not legally his due.
This man Reardon is a fine, loyal fellow, but he's touchy " "I know all about him," Murphy interrupted with a slight emphasis on the pronoun. Unlike Mr. Reardon he employed the third person singular and did not say "that fella," for he had been raised in the United States of America. "I have already given the captain his instructions," Matt Peasley announced.
We've got to return and face Mr Reardon and the captain, and the first question asked of an officer who has been entrusted with one of Her Majesty's boats, and who returns without it, is What have you done with the boat or ship? We yes, you are in the mess, sir have to go back and say that we have lost it." "Why, the captain owned to Pat that a thing couldn't be lost when you knew where it was."
"Can't you see him?" roared the lieutenant. "No, sir." We leaped downward, hurried right aft where the captain and the other officers were now gathered, and the orders were given for a second boat to be lowered and help to save the poor fellow. "He ought to float, sir," said Mr Reardon in answer to some remark from the captain. "He's fat enough."
He could have cried 'Coward! to the writer who wounded him. The would-be sensational story which was now in Mr Jedwood's hands had perhaps more merit than 'Margaret Home'; its brevity, and the fact that nothing more was aimed at than a concatenation of brisk events, made it not unreadable. But Reardon thought of it with humiliation.
He hung up, reached for a telegraph blank and wrote the following message: San Francisco, July 28, 1914. Terence Reardon, Chief Engineer, S. S. Arab, Port Costa, California. Have bought Narcissus. Offer you one hundred seventy-five a month quit Arab now and supervise installation new crank shaft, retubing condensers, and so on; permanent job as chief. Do you accept? Answer immediately.
However, H.M.S. Panther was scarcely three cable lengths distant now, and the officer on her flying bridge could see that some sort of a jolly row was in progress on the deck of the Narcissus; so he kept the searchlight on the combatants while Mr. Reardon bent Mr.
She ate a piece of dry bread, washed her face, neck, and hands. It was time to start for the factory. That day Saturday was a half-holiday. Susan drew her week's earnings four dollars and ten cents and came home. Mrs. Tucker, who had drawn "thanks to the Lord" three dollars and a quarter, was with her. The janitress halted them as they passed and told them that Mrs. Reardon was dead.
Reardon had risen and wished to approach her, but could not do so directly. He moved to another part of the room, then came round to the back of her chair, and bent his face upon her shoulder. 'Amy 'Well. 'I think it's all over with me. I don't think I shall write any more. 'Don't be so foolish, dear. What is to prevent your writing? 'Perhaps I am only out of sorts.
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