Tarzan of the Apes | Page 5

should be to
go to our cabin and look over my revolvers. I am sorry now that we
packed the larger guns and the ammunition with the stuff below."
They found their quarters in a bad state of disorder. Clothing from their
open boxes and bags strewed the little apartment, and even their beds
had been torn to pieces.
"Evidently someone was more anxious about our belongings than we,"
said Clayton. "Let's have a look around, Alice, and see what's missing."
A thorough search revealed the fact that nothing had been taken but
Clayton's two revolvers and the small supply of ammunition he had
saved out for them.
"Those are the very things I most wish they had left us," said Clayton,
"and the fact that they wished for them and them alone is most
sinister."
"What are we to do, John?" asked his wife. "Perhaps you were right in
that our best chance lies in maintaining a neutral position.
"If the officers are able to prevent a mutiny, we have nothing to fear,
while if the mutineers are victorious our one slim hope lies in not
having attempted to thwart or antagonize them."
"Right you are, Alice. We'll keep in the middle of the road."
As they started to straighten up their cabin, Clayton and his wife
simultaneously noticed the corner of a piece of paper protruding from
beneath the door of their quarters. As Clayton stooped to reach for it he
was amazed to see it move further into the room, and then he realized
that it was being pushed inward by someone from without.

Quickly and silently he stepped toward the door, but, as he reached for
the knob to throw it open, his wife's hand fell upon his wrist.
"No, John," she whispered. "They do not wish to be seen, and so we
cannot afford to see them. Do not forget that we are keeping to the
middle of the road."
Clayton smiled and dropped his hand to his side. Thus they stood
watching the little bit of white paper until it finally remained at rest
upon the floor just inside the door.
Then Clayton stooped and picked it up. It was a bit of grimy, white
paper roughly folded into a ragged square. Opening it they found a
crude message printed almost illegibly, and with many evidences of an
unaccustomed task.
Translated, it was a warning to the Claytons to refrain from reporting
the loss of the revolvers, or from repeating what the old sailor had told
them--to refrain on pain of death.
"I rather imagine we'll be good," said Clayton with a rueful smile.
"About all we can do is to sit tight and wait for whatever may come."
Chapter 2
The Savage Home
Nor did they have long to wait, for the next morning as Clayton was
emerging on deck for his accustomed walk before breakfast, a shot rang
out, and then another, and another.
The sight which met his eyes confirmed his worst fears. Facing the
little knot of officers was the entire motley crew of the Fuwalda, and at
their head stood Black Michael.
At the first volley from the officers the men ran for shelter, and from
points of vantage behind masts, wheel-house and cabin they returned
the fire of the five men who represented the hated authority of the ship.

Two of their number had gone down before the captain's revolver. They
lay where they had fallen between the combatants. But then the first
mate lunged forward upon his face, and at a cry of command from
Black Michael the mutineers charged the remaining four. The crew had
been able to muster but six firearms, so most of them were armed with
boat hooks, axes, hatchets and crowbars.
The captain had emptied his revolver and was reloading as the charge
was made. The second mate's gun had jammed, and so there were but
two weapons opposed to the mutineers as they bore down upon the
officers, who now started to give back before the infuriated rush of
their men.
Both sides were cursing and swearing in a frightful manner, which,
together with the reports of the firearms and the screams and groans of
the wounded, turned the deck of the Fuwalda to the likeness of a
madhouse.
Before the officers had taken a dozen backward steps the men were
upon them. An ax in the hands of a burly Negro cleft the captain from
forehead to chin, and an instant later the others were down: dead or
wounded from dozens of blows and bullet wounds.
Short and grisly had been the work of the mutineers of the Fuwalda,
and through it all John Clayton had stood leaning carelessly beside the
companionway puffing meditatively upon his pipe as though he had
been