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Updated: June 22, 2025
A knife caught his shirt at the shoulder and ripped it to the waist; a club whizzed past his head, but his great fists smashed home on face and head and sent men staggering and sprawling back. The confusion gave him an instant of freedom in a small circle, and he leaned and caught one of Harrigan's assailants by the heels.
Always you play into me hands, McTee. Now when you see Kate, you'll feel me grin in the background mockin' ye, eh?" The banter gave the captain a shrewd inspiration. He leaned, and catching one of Harrigan's hands with a quick movement, turned it palm up.
He asked her to go with him to say good-bye to John Edstrom, whom he had not seen since their unceremonious parting at MacKellar's, when Hal had fled to Percy Harrigan's train. Downstairs in the lobby Hal explained his errand to his waiting brother, who made no comment, but merely remarked that he would follow, if Hal had no objection.
"I kept the rest of them away," went on the Irishman. "When you woke up, I wanted you to hear why I didn't finish you." 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.
Harrigan's guests. Needless to say they were not told that the "buddy" who had been thrown out of camp for insubordination had turned out to be the son of Edward S. Warner, the "coal magnate." A fine, cold rain was falling, and Hal borrowed an old coat of Jerry's and slipped it on.
His own lips were sealed, so he could not ask point-blank the question that clamored at the tip of his tongue. "So you are Miss Harrigan's confessor?" "Does it strike you strangely?" "Merely the coincidence." "If I were not her confessor I should take the liberty of asking you some questions." "It is quite possible that I should decline to answer them." The padre shrugged.
At the summons Harrigan's jaw fell loosely like that of an exhausted distance-runner, and long-suppressed words grew achingly large in his throat. "I've had enough!" he groaned. "Harrigan!" thundered the captain, and Harrigan knew that his attempted speech had been merely a silent wish.
Out of his own mouth he had been nicely trapped. That morning he had complained of a little twinge in his heart, a childish subterfuge to take Mrs. Harrigan's attention away from the eternal society page of the Herald. It had succeeded. He had even been cuddled. "James, you told me..." "Oh, Molly, I only wanted to talk to you." "To do so it isn't necessary to frighten me to death," reproachfully.
His head tilted back and his whisper went thick like that of a drunkard: "Ah-h, McTee, look at the hands, look at the hands! They're red now for a sign av the blood av ye that'll someday be on 'em!" And he picked up his bucket and brush and went down the deck. The laugh of McTee followed him. Having framed the wish in words, it was never absent from Harrigan's mind now.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the black-haired man come into the battle, straight and stiff as before, with long arms shooting out like pistons. It was a glorious sight. Something made Harrigan's heart big; rose and swelled his throat; rose again and came as a wild yell upon his tongue. The unfortunates who have faced Irish legions in battle know that yell.
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