Indignant at the thought, he held himself erect. His face was set
like a mask, his eyes were untroubled. He was determined they
should not see that he was suffering.

Another gun spat out a burst of white smoke, a stab of flame. There
was an echoing roar. Another and another followed. Marshall counted
seven, and then, with a bow to the admiral, backed from the
gangway.

And then another gun shattered the hot, heavy silence. Marshall,
confused, embarrassed, assuming he had counted wrong, hastily
returned to his place. But again before he could leave it, in
savage haste a ninth gun roared out its greeting. He could not
still be mistaken. He turned appealingly to his friend. The eyes of
the admiral were fixed upon the war-ship. Again a gun shattered the
silence. Was it a jest? Were they laughing at him? Marshall flushed
miserably. He gave a swift glance toward the others. They were
smiling. Then it was a jest. Behind his back, something of which
they all were cognizant was going forward. The face of Livingstone
alone betrayed a like bewilderment to his own. But the others, who
knew, were mocking him.

For the thirteenth time a gun shook the brooding swamp land of
Porto Banos. And then, and not until then, did the flag crawl
slowly from the mast-head. Mary Cairns broke the tenseness by
bursting into tears. But Marshall saw that every one else, save she
and Livingstone, were still smiling. Even the bluejackets in charge
of the launch were grinning at him. He was beset by smiling faces.
And then from the war-ship, unchecked, came, against all
regulations, three long, splendid cheers.