I called to the others to halt a moment, and fishing the thing out of my pocket I dabbed it on, and had to hold it in its place by crinkling my upper lip against my nose.
Burroughs and Bryant turned back; and I pulled my felt hat well down over my face, held my head down as if to avoid the pelting rain and hurried on alone.
On reaching the corner I purposely quickened my pace, and as I turned, something was thrown over my head, a hand was clapped to my mouth—outside the cloak fortunately, otherwise it might have been my moustache only which would have been abducted—and I was lifted off my feet and carried bodily away.
I made a pretence of struggling.
“No harm will happen to you unless you resist or try to cry out,” said a voice sternly.
I felt I could safely desist, therefore, and let them carry me the rest of the distance to the launch, where I was placed in the little deckhouse with a couple of men to hold me down.
I made another feeble struggle then, and once more I was ordered with threats to lie still.
In the struggle I managed to get my hands up to my face and luckily found the moustache which I stuck on again.
Almost immediately afterwards, I was turned face downwards, and the covering cloak or cloth or whatever it was, was pulled back sufficiently to allow of a revolver being thrust against my head.
“If you dare even to look round, I shall fire,” said the same voice, and I replied with an appropriate shiver of fear. I chuckled as I realized that the men were as anxious I should not see their faces as I was that they should not see mine.