It was a German sporting Mauser, with a hair trigger attachment and magazine, as handy and useful a weapon as the heart of man could wish.

He had scarcely snapped the breach to again when a voice we all recognized made the hair rise on my neck.

Fred jumped and raised the rifle.

Will swore softly--endlessly.
"Gassharrrrammminy! You men took us for damned fools, didn't you?
You thought to get away and leave us! By hell, no! We go or you stay! Birds of a feather fly together! One of you is American--I am American! Two of you are English--I am English, and can prove it! My friends come with me!" Fred leveled the rifle at him.
"About face! Off back to town with you!" he barked.
"Not on your tin-type!" Coutlass yelled.

"I'm no man's popinjay! Shoot if you dare, and I'll spoil the whole game! Help! He-e-e-lp! He-e-e-e-lp!" The other Greek and the Goanese joined in the shout, the dark man setting up such an ululating screech that the very storm dwindled into second place in comparison.