?" Charlie put the question in Chinese, but the beach-comber
only twinkled his vicious eyes upon them and held his peace. With the
full sweep of her arm, her fist clinched till the knuckles whitened,
Moran struck him in the face.

"Now will you talk?" she cried. Hoang wiped the blood from his face upon
his shoulder and set his jaws. He did not answer.

"You will talk before I'm done with you, my friend; don't get any wrong
notions in your head about that," Moran continued, her teeth clinched.
"Charlie," she added, "is there a file aboard the schooner?"

"I tink um yass, boss hab got file."

"In the tool-chest, isn't it?" Charlie nodded, and Moran ordered it to
be fetched.

"If we're to fight that crowd," she said, speaking to herself and in a
rapid voice, thick from excitement and passion, "we've got to know where
they've hid the loot, and what weapons they've got. If they have a rifle
or a shotgun with them, it's going to make a big difference for us. The
other fellow escaped and has gone back to warn the rest. It's fight now,
and no mistake."

The Chinaman who had been sent aboard the schooner returned, carrying a
long, rather coarse-grained file. Moran took it from him.

"Now," she said, standing in front of Hoang, "I'll give you one more
chance. Answer me. Did you bring off the ambergris, you beast, when your
junk sank? Where is it now? How many men have you? What arms have you
got? Have your men got a rifle?--Charlie, put that all to him in your
lingo, so as to make sure that he understands. Tell him if he don't talk
I'm going to make him very sick."

Charlie put the questions in Chinese, pausing after each one. Hoang held
his peace.

"I gave you fair warning," shouted Moran angrily, pointing at him with
the file. "Will you answer?"

"Him no tell nuttin," observed Charlie.

"Fetch a cord here," commanded Moran. The cord was brought, and despite
Hoang's struggles and writhings the file was thrust end-ways into his
mouth and his jaws bound tightly together upon it by means of the cord
passed over his head and under his chin. Some four inches of the file
portruded from his lips. Moran took this end and drew it out between the
beach-comber's teeth, then pushed it back slowly.

The hideous rasp of the operation turned Wilbur's blood cold within him.
He looked away--out to sea, down the beach--anywhere, so that he might
not see what was going forward. But the persistent grind and scrape
still assaulted his