"She's worse again! Damn you, McTee, I told you this message was bad luck!" The wireless operator was much puzzled and glance from the Scotchman to his skipper.
"I only wanted to know, sir, if you wish to send an answer to this last wireless.

Any congratulations ?" "No--get out!" And as Sloan fled from the door with a wondering side glance at McTee, Henshaw sank back into his chair, picked up the paper on which he was about to write, and tore it into small bits.

Not until this task was finished was he able to speak to McTee.
"D'you see now?
Is there nothing in my superstitions?
Why, sir, just holding that pen over this piece of damnable paper brought Sloan on the run to my door.

If I'd written a single word, he'd of had a message from the doctors saying that Beatrice was dying.

I know!" "You really think," began McTee, and some of his furious impatience crept into his voice--"you really think that writing on that piece of paper with your pen would have brought in Sloan with a wireless message from the mainland ?" Henshaw shook his head slowly.
"There's no use trying to explain these things," he said, "but sometimes, McTee, there's a small voice that comes up inside of me and tells me what to do and what not to do.