Part 22 (1/2)

”By the Lord!” cried Campbell. ”It never fails--a strong man knows his liquor like a book! You're almost right. Add three years and you have it! Thirty-eight years in suns.h.i.+ne and shadow!”

He leaned back and gazed dreamily up to the ceiling.

”Think of it,” he went on in a reverent murmur. ”Men have been born and grown strong and then started toward the shady side of life since this wine was put in the bottle. For thirty-eight years it has been gathering and saving its perfume--draw a breath of it now, lad!--and when I uncork the bottle, all the odor blows out to me at once.”

”True,” said Harrigan, nodding sagely. ”I've thought the same thing, but never found the words for it, chief.”

”Have you?” asked Campbell eagerly. ”Sit down, lad; sit down! Well, well! Good wine was put on earth for a blessing, but men have misused it, Harrigan--but hear me preaching when I ought to be praying!”

”Prayin'?” repeated the diplomatic Harrigan. ”No, no, man! Maybe you've drunk a good store of liquor, but it s.h.i.+nes through you. It puts a flush on your face like a sun s.h.i.+nin' through a cloud. You'd hearten any man on a dark day!”

He could not resist the play on the words, and a shadow crossed the face of the engineer.

”Harrigan,” he growled, ”there's a double meaning in what you say, but I'll not think of it. You're no fool, lad, but do not vex me. But say your say. I suppose I'm red enough to be seen by my own light on a dark night. What does Bobbie say?

”Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us!

”Well, well! I forgave you for the sake of Bobbie! Do you know his rhymes, lad?”

A light shone in the eye of Harrigan. He began to sing softly in his musical, deep voice: ”Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon--”

”No, no, man!” cried Campbell, raising his hand in horror at the sound of the false accent. ”It should go like this!”

He pulled a guitar out of a case and commenced to strum lightly on it, while he rendered the old song in a voice roughened by ill usage but still strong and true. A knock at the door interrupted him at the climax of his song, and he glared toward the unseen and rash intruder.

”What will ye hae?” he roared, continuing the dialect which the song had freshened on his tongue.

”The s.h.i.+ft in the fireroom is short-handed,” said the voice. ”That fellow Harrigan has not shown up. Shall we search for him?”

”Search for the de'il!” thundered Campbell. ”Harrigan is doing a fine piece of work for me; shall I let him go to the fireroom to swing a shovel?”

”The captain's orders, sir,” persisted the voice rashly.

Campbell leaped for the door and jerked it open a few inches.

”Be off!” he cried; ”or I'll set you pa.s.sin' coal yourself, my fine lad! What? Will ye be asking questions? Is there no discipline? Mutiny, mutiny--that's what this is!”

”Aye, aye, sir!” murmured a rapidly retreating voice.

Campbell closed and locked the door and turned back to Harrigan with a grin.

”The world's a wide place,” he said, ”but there's few enough in it who know our Bobbie, G.o.d bless him! When I've found one, shall I let him go down to the fireroom? Ha! Now tell me what's wrong between you and McTee.”

”I will not talk,” said Harrigan with another bold stroke of diplomacy, ”till I hear the rest of that song. The true Scotch comes hard on my tongue, but I'll learn it.”

”You will, laddie, for your heart's right. Man, man, I'm nothing now, but you should have heard me sing in the old days--”

”When we were in Glasgow,” grinned Harrigan.