"Dodge is the night editor," said Gordon, nervously. "They
must have read my message wrong. You sent just what I gave
you, didn't you?" he asked.

"Of course I did," said Stedman, indignantly. "I didn't say
anything about the massacre of anybody, did I?" asked Gordon.
"I hope they are not improving on my account. What AM I to
do? This is getting awful. I'll have to go out and kill a
few people myself. Oh, why don't that Dutch captain begin to
do something! What sort of a fighter does he call himself?
He wouldn't shoot at a school of porpoises. He's not----"

"Here comes a message to Leonard T. Travis, American consul,
Opeki," read Stedman. "It's raining messages to-day. `Send
full details of massacre of American citizens by German
sailors.' Secretary of--great Scott!" gasped Stedman,
interrupting himself and gazing at his instrument with horrified
fascination--"the Secretary of State."

"That settles it," roared Gordon, pulling at his hair and
burying his face in his hands. "I have GOT to kill some of
them now."

"Albert Gordon, Correspondent," read Stedman, impressively,
like the voice of Fate. "Is Colonel Thomas Bradley commanding
native forces at Opeki, Colonel Sir Thomas Kent-Bradley of
Crimean war fame? Correspondent London Times, San Francisco
Press Club."