all round," he added, with a shrug, "or else I shouldn't be here."

"Very well," said Kettle, "then I'll rate myself chief engineer." He got
up, and walked round to where the black second engineer, the last man
shot, still nuzzled the boiler plates exactly in the same position where
he had first fallen. He lifted one of the man's arms, and let it go. It
jerked back again like a spring.

"Well, Daddy," he said, "you didn't take long to get stiff. They shot
you nice and clean, anyway. I guess we'll let the river and the
crocodiles bury you." With a sharp heave, he jerked the rigid body on to
the rail, and even for the short second it poised there the poor dead
clay managed to stop another of those bullets which flew up in such
deadly silence from that distant sandbank.

"Good-by," said Kettle, as he toppled the corpse over, and it fell with
a splash, stiff-limbed into the yellow water. He watched the body as it
bobbed up again to the surface, and floated with the stream out into the
silvery sunshine. "Good-by, cocky," said he. "You've been a good nigger,
and, as you were shot doing your duty, they'll set you on at the place
where you've gone to, one of the lightest jobs they've got suitable for
a black pagan. That's a theological fact. You'll probable turn to and
stoke; I'll be sending you down presently another batch of heathen to
shovel on the fire. I've got a biggish bill against those beggars on
that sandbank yonder for the mischief they've done."

But it was no place there to waste much time on sentiment. The woodwork
of the shabby little steamer was riddled with splintered holes; the
rusted iron plating was starred with gray lead-splashes; and every
minute more bullets ploughed furrows in the yellow waters of the river,