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As he smoked he watched the abrupt misting of the stars by a rain-squall that made to windward or to where windward might vaguely be configured. While he gauged the minutes ere he must order Tambi below with the phonograph and records, he noted the bush-girl gazing at him in dumb fear.
Without turning his head, his right hand unconsciously dropping close to the butt of the automatic, Van Horn commanded: "You fella Tambi. Fetch 'm lantern. No fetch 'm this place. Fetch 'm aft along mizzen rigging and look sharp eye belong you." Tambi obeyed, exposing the lantern twenty feet away from where his captain stood.
The conversation was becoming rather a farcical dissertation upon the relations that should obtain between states, irrespective of size, when it was broken off by a cry from Tambi, who, with another lantern hanging overside at the end of his arm had made a discovery. "Skipper, gun he stop along canoe!" was his cry. Van Horn, with a leap, was at the rail and peering down over the barbed wire.
Toward the last the basket had hovered constantly close to his hand, and, at the last, he made one final dip. It was at the moment when the Mary's axe, on deck, had struck Borckman down and when Tambi loosed the first shot at her from his Lee-Enfield.
Even as he looked, thin smoke-columns were rising along the slopes and lesser peaks, and more were beginning to rise. "My word," Tambi grinned. "Plenty boy stop 'm bush lookout along you eye belong him." Van Horn smiled understandingly.
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