men were upon them. An ax in the hands of a burly Negro
cleft the captain from forehead to chin, and an instant later
the others were down: dead or wounded from dozens of
blows and bullet wounds.

Short and grisly had been the work of the mutineers of the
Fuwalda, and through it all John Clayton had stood leaning
carelessly beside the companionway puffing meditatively upon
his pipe as though he had been but watching an indifferent
cricket match.

As the last officer went down he thought it was time that
he returned to his wife lest some members of the crew find
her alone below.

Though outwardly calm and indifferent, Clayton was inwardly
apprehensive and wrought up, for he feared for his wife's
safety at the hands of these ignorant, half-brutes into
whose hands fate had so remorselessly thrown them.

As he turned to descend the ladder he was surprised to see
his wife standing on the steps almost at his side.

"How long have you been here, Alice?"

"Since the beginning," she replied. "How awful, John. Oh,
how awful! What can we hope for at the hands of such as those?"

"Breakfast, I hope," he answered, smiling bravely in an
attempt to allay her fears.