"It's all over," said McGuffey sadly to the mate. "They've killed
'em both." Whereupon B. McGuffey, Esquire, sat down on the cabin
ventilator, pulled out a bandana handkerchief and wept into it,
for his honest Irish heart was breaking.
It was fully half an hour before poor McGuffey could pull
himself together, and when he did, his grief was superseded by a
fit of rage that was terrible to behold.
"Step lively, you blasted scum of the seas," he bawled to the
mate, and the crew gathered around the gun. "Lug up a case of
ammunition and we'll shell that bush until even a parrot won't be
left alive in it."
"Aye, aye, sir," responded the crew to a man, and sprang to their
task.
"I'm an old navy gunner," said the first mate quietly. "I'll
handle the gun. With a 'pom-pom' gun it's just like playing a
garden hose on them, only it's high-explosive shell instead of
water. I can search out every nook and cranny in the coast of
this island. Those guns are sighted up to 4,000 yards."
"Kill 'em all," raved McGuffey, "kill all the blasted niggers."
When Mr. Gibney fell under the impact of the earthenware pot he
was only partially stunned. As he tried to struggle to his feet
half a dozen hands were laid on him and in a trice he was lifted
and carried back of the wari to a clear space where a dozen heavy
teakwood posts stood in a row about four feet apart.
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