“Great Scott! What a race.”
Max could scarcely get enough breath to speak, but even then he was more than delighted.
There was the African whirling round in a smaller circle, while the boat was going equally fast in a larger one around him.
“Jewilikins! what was that?”
Even Max turned sick when he knew what it was.
The boat had struck Klatchman such a blow on the head that the poor creature’s brains were spattered all over the boat.
“Good-by, Max!” gasped Ibrahim.
“Good-by, old fellow! I have brought you to death, but I didn’t mean to do so.”
“I forgive you. Poor Girzilla!”
One of the Arabs had fainted with fright, and before either of his comrades or Max could reach forward to save him, he had fallen out of the boat and was dashed to pieces in the whirlpool.