Pop—pop—pop—pop—rang Tandy’s revolver, and the yelling crowd grew thinner, and finally fled.
A spear or two was thrown, but these went wide of the mark.
Human blood looks ghastly on white coral sands, but was Tandy to blame?
Nelda was safe, and in his arms.
“O daddy,” she cried, kissing his weather-beaten face, “are we safe?”
“Yes, darling; but I mustn’t land here again.”
Salook was the village king here, a big, burly brute of an Arab, with a white, gilded turban and a yellow, greasy face beneath it. Tandy had known some of his tricks and manners in days gone by.
At sunset that very same evening Salook was surrounded by his warriors.
“Everything yonder,” he said in Swahili, as he pointed to the Sea Flower, “is yours. The little maiden shall be my slave. Get ready your boats, and sharpen your spears. Even were the ship a British man-of-war I’d board her.”
At sunset that evening Tandy was surrounded by his men, and pistols and cutlasses were served out to all.