fusillade, and added his puppy yelpings to the noise.  As the empty brass cartridges were ejected, the return boys scrambled on the deck for them, esteeming them as very precious objects and thrusting them, still warm, into the empty holes in their ears.  Their ears were perforated with many of these holes, the smallest capable of receiving a cartridge, while the larger ones contained-clay pipes, sticks of tobacco, and even boxes of matches.  Some of the holes in the ear-lobes were so huge that they were plugged with carved wooden cylinders three inches in diameter.

Mate and captain carried automatics in their belts, and with these they turned loose, shooting away clip after clip to the breathless admiration of the blacks for such marvellous rapidity of fire.  The boat’s crew were not even fair shots, but Van Horn, like every captain in the Solomons, knew that the bush natives and salt-water men were so much worse shots, and knew that the shooting of his boat’s crew could be depended upon—­if the boat’s crew itself did not turn against the ship in a pinch.

At first, Borckman’s automatic jammed, and he received a caution from Van Horn for his carelessness in not keeping it clean and thin-oiled.  Also, Borckman was twittingly asked how many drinks he had taken, and if that was what accounted for his shooting being under his average.  Borckman explained that he had a touch of fever, and Van Horn deferred stating his doubts until a few minutes later, squatting in the shade of the spanker with Jerry in his arms, he told Jerry all about it.

“The trouble with him is the schnapps, Jerry,” he explained.  “Gott-fer-dang, it makes me keep all my watches and half of his.  And he says it’s the fever.  Never believe it, Jerry.  It’s the schnapps—­just the plain s-c-h-n-a-p-p-s schnapps.  An’ he’s a good sailor-man, Jerry, when he’s sober.  But when he’s schnappy he’s sheer lunatic.  Then his noddle goes pinwheeling and he’s a blighted fool, and he’d snore in a gale and suffer for sleep in a dead calm.—­Jerry, you’re just beginning to pad those four little soft feet of yours into the world, so take the advice of one who knows and leave the schnapps alone.  Believe me, Jerry, boy—­listen to your father—­schnapps will never buy you anything.”

Whereupon, leaving Jerry on deck to stalk the wild-dog, Captain Van Horn went below into the tiny stateroom and took a long drink from the very bottle from which Borckman was stealing.

The stalking of the wild-dog became a game, at least to Jerry, who was so made that his heart bore no malice, and who hugely enjoyed it.  Also, it gave him a delightful consciousness of his own mastery, for the wild-dog always fled from him.  At least so far as dogs were concerned, Jerry was cock of the deck of the Arangi.  It did not enter his head to query how his conduct affected the wild-dog, though, in truth, he led that individual a wretched existence.  Never, except when Jerry was below, did the wild one dare venture more than several feet from his retreat, and he went about in fear and trembling of the fat roly-poly puppy who was unafraid of his snarl.