Part 18 (1/2)
McTee, if she is yours, you have found another Venus!”
”If she is not mine,” answered McTee, ”at least she belongs to no other man.”
Salvain studied him, first with eagerness, then with doubt, and last of all with despair.
”If any other man said that I would question it--so!--with my life. But McTee? No, I love life too well!”
”Now,” Henshaw said to Salvain, ”Captain McTee and I have business to talk.”
”Aye, sir,” said Salvain.
”One minute, Salvain,” broke in McTee. ”I haven't thanked you in the girl's name for taking care of Miss Malone.”
The first mate paused at the door.
”I begin to wonder, captain,” he answered, ”whether or not you have the right to thank me in her name!”
He disappeared through the door without waiting for an answer.
”Salvain has forgotten me,” muttered McTee, balling his fist, ”but I'll freshen his memory.”
He flushed as he became aware of the cold eye of Henshaw upon him.
”Even Samson fell,” said the old man. ”But she hasn't cut your hair yet, McTee?”
”What the devil do you mean?”
Henshaw silently poured another drink and pa.s.sed it to the Scotchman.
The latter gripped the gla.s.s hard and tossed off the drink with a single gesture. At once his eyes came back to Henshaw's face with the fierce question. He was astonished to note kindliness in the answering gaze.
Old Henshaw said gently: ”Tut, tut! You're a proper man, McTee, and a proper man has always the thought of some woman tucked away in his heart. Look at me! For almost sixty years I've been the King of the South Seas!”
At the thought of his glories his face altered, as soldiers change when they receive the order to charge.
”You're a rare man and a bold man, McTee, but you'll never be what White Henshaw has been--the Shark of the Sea! Ha! Yet think of it! Ten years ago, after all my harvesting of the sea, I had not a dollar to show for it! Why? Because I was working for no woman. But here I am sailing home from my last voyage--rich! And why? Because for ten years I've been working for a woman. For ourselves we make and we spend. But for a woman we make and we save. Aye!”
”For a woman?” repeated McTee, wondering. ”Do you mean to say--”
”Tut, man, it's my granddaughter. Look!”
Perhaps the whisky had loosened the old man's tongue; perhaps these confidences were merely a tribute to the name and fame of McTee; but whatever was the reason, McTee knew he was hearing things which had never been spoken before. Now Henshaw produced a leather wallet from which he selected two pictures, and handed one to the Scotchman. It showed a little girl of some ten years with her hair braided down her back. McTee looked his question.
”That picture was sent to me by my son ten years ago.”
It showed the effect of time and rough usage. The edges of the cheap portrait were yellow and cracked.
”He was worthless, that son of mine. So I shut him out of my mind until I got a letter saying he was about to die and giving his daughter into my hands. That picture was in the letter. Ah, McTee, how I pored over it! For, you see, I saw the face of my wife in the face of the little girl, Beatrice. She had come back to life in the second generation. I suppose that happens sometimes.
”I made up my mind that night to make a fortune for little Beatrice.
First I sold my name and honor to get a half share and captaincy of a small tramp freighter. Then I went to the Solomon Islands. You know what I did there? Yes, the South Seas rang with it. It was brutal, but it brought me money.