TERENCE Reardon's preparations for the night's work began the instant
he hung up the speaking-tube. The _Narcissus_ carried three assistant
engineers, in consequence of which Mr. Reardon was not required to stand
a watch unless he so elected; although from force of habit acquired
in the days when he had been chief of the _Arab_--a little
three-thousand-ton tramp--and perforce had to stand a regular watch,
he found it very difficult not to spend at least eight hours in
every twenty-four in the engine room. When, eventually, he came to a
realization that his job was not to make the engines behave, but to see
that they behaved properly, he spent more of his time on deck, and
put in only a few hours below during the watch of the third assistant
engineer--the third assistant being a young man in whom the chief
reposed exactly that degree of confidence a chief engineer should always
repose in a third assistant. Mr. Reardon, therefore, was at liberty to
leave the engine-room whenever he felt so disposed; and following his
illuminating conversation with the captain he felt very much disposed to
leave immediately.
He went first to his state-room, where he bathed, changed into new
under-clothes and socks, donned a freshly laundered suit of faded
dungarees--old, faded, well-washed dungarees, by the way, always
appearing neater and cleaner than new ones--and shaved; for if
Providence willed it that lie should die to-night. Mr. Reardon was
resolved to be in such a highly sanitary condition that “those upon whom
should devolve the melancholy duty of laying him out”--which phrase, in
the Hibernian sense, means those who should dispose his limbs, close his
eyes, tie up his black jowls with a towel and fold his hands--alas,
so white in death, at last! across his still breast--might be moved to
remark that, notwithstanding the nature of the deceased's vocation, they
could not recall ever having seen a cleaner corpse.
Having attended to his pre-dissolution toilet, Mr. Reardon next sat
in at his littered desk, swept a space clear of tobacco crumbs, ashes,
pipes and some old copies of the _Cork Eagle_, and sat down to write a
farewell letter to his wife, hoping that, even though his enemies should
slay him, yet would they have sufficient respect for the dead to mail
that letter to Mrs. Reardon. And, in order that he might not anger his
posthumous benefactors, he mentioned nothing of the state of affairs
aboard the ship. He merely stated that she might never see him again, in
which event she was to call upon the owners and ask them to invest for
her the proceeds of his life insurance policy, since they could and
would invest it to better advantage than she. Then he spoke of his grief
at the thought of the children being forced to forego their college
education and suggested that she ask Cappy Ricks to give Johnny a place
in his office; also, should the owners offer anything as compensation
for the loss of her husband, she was to accept it, for, as God was
his judge, she would be entitled to it! This last sentence Terence
underscored for emphasis; that was as close as he came to saying that
if he died it would be in defense of his owner's interest. Then he
commended her to the comfort of her religion and subscribed himself:
“Your loving and devoted husband, Terence P. Reardon, Chief Engineer
S.S. _Narcissus_.”
Having set his small affairs in order against a hasty exit from this
vale of hatreds, Mr. Reardon, in unconscious imitation of all the
condemned men who had preceded him on the voyage across the Styx,
repaired to the dining saloon and partook of a hearty meal. He realized
he had undertaken a contract that would require the employment of
weapons more formidable than his hard fists, and devoutly he
wished that, like the fairy queen, he had but to breathe on them to
metamorphose them into pig iron. He pictured the slaughter aboard the
_Narcissus_ when he should wade into the conflict. Finally he made up
his mind that, in lieu of an iron hand or two, he would use his favorite
monkey wrench, for he had no firearms whatsoever; although, had somebody
presented him with a one-man machine gun with full directions for using,
Mr Reardon would have recoiled in horror from it. Firearms were highly
dangerous. They killed so many people!
He left the table long before the others had finished. There was no one
on deck as he emerged from the dining saloon, so he walked leisurely
round past the captain's cabin, whistling the “Cruiskeen Lawn” to let
Mike Murphy know who was coming. Evidently Michael assimilated the hint,
for there was an envelope on the little window sill as Terence hove
abreast of it. He snatched it swiftly away and continued round to his
own state-room.
The envelope contained Michael J. Murphy's plan for campaign worked out
to the most minute detail, by reason of his absolute knowledge of the
customs aboard the ship. Mr. Reardon read the remarkable document and
sat lost in admiration; a twinkle leaped to his eyes and a cunning,
rather deadly little smile came sneaking round the corners of his broad
chin.
“Arrah, but 'tis a beautiful schame,” he soliloquized. “Who but that
lad could have t'ought av it? An' here I've been shpendin' the past two
hours borrowin' trouble.”
He read and reread the plan of attack, in order to familiarize himself
with the details; then he held a match to the document and destroyed
it. He considered a moment, and then performed a similar service to
his farewell letter to Mrs. Reardon, for the chief engineer of the
S.S. _Narcissus_, of San Francisco, had made up his mind not to
die--to-night!