There was no
more shooting, and there was no need for it. By sheer weight of blows
the whites kept the enemy from climbing through the windows, and so long
as the windows were not stormed, the iron house was safe to them. And
presently one of the head-men blew his boatswain's whistle, and the
attack drew off.
Promptly Kettle reloaded his revolver and stepped out into the open.
"Now," he said, "you seen my _ju-ju?_ You savvy him too-big _ju-ju_? You
want any more of it? No. Then get away aft with you. You hear? You lib
for bottom deck back there, one-time." He rushed at them, one slight,
slim, white-clad white man against all that reeking, shining mob, and
they struggled away before him in grotesque tumblings and jostlings,
like a flock of sheep.
But at the break of the deck he paused and looked below him, and the
fight all dropped away from his face. No. 3 hatch lay open before him,
with the covers thrown here and there. From it was creeping up a thin
blue smoke, with now and then a scarlet trail of flame. Here was a
complication.
"So you gluttonous, careless brutes have set fire to her, have you?
Here, who was in the engine room?"
Discipline was coming back.
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