You're not going to burn at sea.

You're going to reach port with all your gold and you're going to stand beside Beatrice and say--" Henshaw broke in: "And say, 'Beatrice, I've come to make you happy.
We'll leave this country where the fogs are so thick and the sun never shines, and we'll go south, far south, where there's summer all the year.' That's what I'll say!" "Right," nodded McTee.

"If her lungs are weak, that's the place to take her." Henshaw jerked erect in his chair.

"Weak lungs?
Who said she had weak lungs?
McTee, you're a fool! A little cold on the chest, that's all that's the matter with the girl! The doctors have made the sickness-- they and their rotten medicines! And now they're making sport out of White Henshaw.

I'll skin them alive, I will!" McTee lighted a cigar and nodded judiciously as he puffed it.
"Very good idea, Henshaw.