remembered how the old Scot had told him frankly that Jean had fallen
in love with Wentworth, and personally, while he believed him to be a
good engineer, he wouldn't trust him out of his sight. And then he had
outlined the scheme he had laid for showing him up so that Jean would
be convinced of his crookedness. And now he had spoiled it all.

The man on the floor stirred restlessly. The thought flashed into
Hedin's brain that there might still be a chance. If he played his
part well, it was possible.

The next thing Wentworth knew, Sven Larson was bending over him,
bathing his face with a large red handkerchief saturated with cold
water. "What in hell happened?" muttered the man, as he brushed
clumsily at his fast discoloring eye with his hand. With the help of
the factor's clerk he sat up. "You hit me! Damn you! What did you
hit me for?"

"I am sorry I hit you," answered Hedin heavily. "It is in here--the
thing that makes me strike." He rubbed his forehead with his fingers.
"It is like many worms crawling inside my head, when one speaks ill of
women. My eyes get hot, and the red streaks come, and then I strike.
It was such a thing that made me strike Pollak. But I had a hammer in
my hand and I looked and saw that Pollak was dead, so I ran away from
there and climbed onto the ship. I am glad I did not have a hammer in
my hand to-day."

Wentworth regained his feet and glanced at his fast closing eye in the
bit of mirror that hung above his wash bench. "So am I," he seconded,
forcing a smile. "Where did all this happen? Who was Pollak, and
where did the ship take you?"