"He is dying, sir," said one of the white seamen who just then entered the cabin; "some of the Tebuan natives cut him down, but not until he had killed three of them. His niggers are safe under the main-hatch."
Followed by Mosé the steward and big Joe, Barry ran on deck. On the hatch were three dead or dying natives, and Warner lay upon the deck with his head against the coamings.
"Bring some lights," cried Barry to the steward, as he knelt beside the wounded man.
"I guess that lights are just what I want, young feller," said Warner faintly, with a grim smile. "That darned kanaka boy just drove his hatchet inter my back, and I reckon I haven't much lights or liver left."
Barry tried to examine the man's wound, but the American stayed him.
"Let me be, mister. I meant to do for you, and would have done it later on. But I'm wiped out and don't want to make a song. Is Jim dead?"
"No," replied Barry, "he is not dead."
"Mister, you are a darned good sort. Me and Jim meant to do for you."
"Don't talk about that, Warner. I have no enmity against you. And I don't think you have long to live."
"That is so, mister. I guess I'm about done. I'd like to see Togaro and the rest of my niggers before I slip, if you have no objections."