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Updated: May 28, 2025
The lights from the gangway showed but one occupant, a tow-headed, greasy-faced, blond youth of twenty, very lean, very calm, very much satisfied with himself. "If it ain't Peter Tonsburg!" Habert ejaculated, reaching out a hand to shake. "Howdy, Peter, howdy. And where in hell are you hellbent for, surging by the Topila in such scandalous fashion!"
The refugee steamboat had departed down river from the Asphodel camp; Chill II had disappeared, the superintendent knew not how, along with the body of Peter Tonsburg; and the superintendent was dubious of their remaining. "I've got to consider the owners," he told them. "This is the biggest well in Mexico, and you know it a hundred and eighty-five thousand barrels daily flow.
Better get your Dutch friends to donate me about twenty gallons of gasoline if you want to get anywhere." "Won't do you no good to lay low," Peter Tonsburg remarked, as, at full speed, headed up river, the Topila's searchlight stabbed them. "High or low, if one of them shells hits in the vicinity good night!" Immediately thereafter the Topila erupted.
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