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Harrigan by Max Brand
page 23 of 285 (08%)
on the wood, but even this skin was worn away in time. When he finished
his shift, his hands were bleeding in places and raw in the palms.

As he came on deck, he tied them up with bits of soft waste in lieu of
a bandage and made no complaint, yet his fingers were trembling when he
ate supper that night. He caught the eyes of the rest of the crew
studying him with a cold calculation. They were estimating the strength
of his endurance and he knew at once that they had been through the
same trial one by one until they were broken.

He could see that they hated the captain and he wondered why they would
ship with him time and again. He watched their expressions when Black
McTee was mentioned, and then he understood. They were waiting for the
time when the captain should weaken. Then they would have their
revenge.

The second day was a repetition of the first. He began with scrubbing
down the bridge. The suds, strong with lye, ate shrewdly at his raw
hands. Still he hummed as he worked and watched McTee's frown grow
dark. When he was ordered below to the fireroom, he wrapped his hands
in the soft waste again. That helped him for a time, but after the
first two hours the waste matted and grew hard with perspiration and
blood. He had to throw it away and take the shovel handle against his
bare skin. He told himself that it was only a matter of time before
calluses would form, but what chance was there for a formation of
calluses when the water and suds softened his hands every morning?

On the third day he was a little more used to the torture. His hands
were hopelessly raw now, but still he made no complaint and stuck with
his task. That night he secured a rag and retreated to the stretch of
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