e Johnnie learn to fight," went on the stoker. "Me go out
when me not yet a man, and in de first battle me kill an enemy. He rush
so"--he clambered from the well, and demonstrated the method of attack
with such energy that the launch rolled--"he make stroke at Johnnie's
head, and miss um mark, golly! by de inch. Den me answer. Me hit wid
all de strength wid um club, and he go whop! He fall dead on de ground.
Den me take um head, and shout de war cry."

He made another attempt to bring the last in reality before his master,
and set the forests ringing. Dick clapped a hand over his mouth, and
pushed him into the well.

"Steady, my lad," he said. "There may be an Ashanti army within hearing
of that call, and then what will happen? Spin your yarn if you wish,
but do it quietly. How's steam?"

A little abashed, but yet glowing with the memory of his victory, the
native stepped to the gauge and read off the pressure. Then he
shovelled a heap of coal from the bunker.

"Come night, and not see so well," he said. "Hab plenty ready to run
wid."

About three hours after that, dusk began to fall, and for a little while
the fugitives were compelled to lie in close to the bank of the river,
for it was densely dark. But the time passed pleasantly enough, for
Dick had his pipe alight for the first time since the previous day and
as he smoked it, watching the glow of the bowl, and looking across to a
similar glow proceeding from the clay gripped between the white teeth of
the native, his thoughts returned to the stockade. He went over all the
scenes again, his nearness to James Langdon, and the luck he had had
then. His successful attempt to reach the stockade, and the desperate
fight he had had on the way. And, later, the retreat, with all its
numerous incidents. He was still thinking of it when the moon came up
in all her splendour, flooding the river till it was almost as light as
day. And then, for the first time for many an hour, he looked at
himself, and was horrified. His hands were cut and scratched in all
directions, as doubtless was his face also. His clothes hung in ribbons
about him, while, by the stains upon the breast of his coat and upon his
shirt, one would have thought that he had been badly hit. But that he
certainly was not; and now he remembered how the wretch who had first
attacked him outside the stockade, had fallen under his own sword--
fallen against the one who struck the blow.

"Time