nd was raising in the Strait
and the waves roared and bubbled underneath among the piles while the
Bugis watched for results. By way of keeping their patience they were at
the pickle bottles, being hindered not at all by the curious specimens
therein and highly pleased with the alcohol. It is another singular
thing that if klang was not made for a white man alcohol was never made
for a brown.

Andrew Harben roused up in the corner where they'd chucked him, meaning
to feed him to the usual alligator for breakfast. He saw them sitting
there and celebrating so very joyful, and he saw something else. Through
the smother off to windward toward Celebes he saw the twinkle of at
least two ships standing off most bewildered and marked for their
graves among the reefs and currents they couldn't place. These ships
were going down to his account because his lights were out. And
meanwhile the Bugis were sitting around and tearing up the lantern
wicks.

Yes, that was just what they were doing. They had took out the wicks so
there should be no more light that night at any price. They had snaffled
the poor little shreds that Andrew Harben had made at the expense of
decency--his wicks, his precious wicks! They tossed the strands about,
and the wind snatched them away inland into howling space, and the Bugis
laughed.

"Ya--ya!" they said, which means good business.

Andrew Harben rose up all so quietly in his corner. Did I tell you he
was a fine, big man? He was, and they were also eight fine, big men--old
Allo and his seven sons. Before they noticed, he was able to reach his
shotgun. It was empty, but he wanted nothing, only the barrels, which
furnished a short and very hefty club. What happened after that nobody
can say exactly. Which perhaps is just as well, for it could not have
been a pretty thing to see. But Andrew Harben, who was crazed with
klang, ran amuck among the Bugis, who were crazed with alcohol, and most
queer were the doings in the lighthouse by Macassar. And when morning
came there was no wreck in that strait.

"So you have not got mad," said the half-caste skipper when he climbed
up to the shack in the smoky dawn two days ahead of time. Then Andrew
Harben came out to meet him wearing few impediments to speak of and not
much skin either; so he added: "Anyways, you have not been eats by z'
crocodile."

"No," said Andrew Harben, all unashamed.

"_Zat_ iss awright, but my God why did you not show your light till