One or two of the dead men do not seem to have had enough, or else are
dissatisfied with the manner of their taking off. At any rate, they
stagger to their feet, and have to be put to sleep again by energetic
means.

Philander comes near making a mess of it all by his enthusiasm. It is a
regular picnic to the small professor.

In the beginning he aimed his gun at one of the brigands. The weapon is
strange to him, being a long Arabian affair, with a peculiar stock, but
Philander has some knowledge of weapons, shuts his eyes, and pulls the
trigger.

The report staggers him. When he opens his eyes, and sees the big,
ragged Kabyle at whom he aimed lying flat on his back, with arms
extended, the professor is horrified at first.

Then some of the warlike spirit that distinguished his ancestors at
Lexington begins to flame up within him.

He gives a shrill war-cry that would doubtless please many a Greek
scholar, and plunges headlong for the foe.

The way in which he swings that Arab gun is a sight to behold; in itself
the apparition of Professor Sharpe thus advancing to the fray is enough
to strike terror to the human heart.

One poor devil is in a position to receive a tremendous whack on the
back with the gun, now used as a cudgel, and there is positively no
fraud about the manner of his sprawling around.