The modern rifles, stolen from Lunga, Sheldon set aside; the Sniders he smashed into fragments; the pile of spears, clubs, and tomahawks he presented to Joan.
"A really unique addition to your collection," he smiled; "picked up right on the battlefield." Down on the beach he built a bonfire out of the contents of the canoes, his blacks smashing, breaking, and looting everything they laid hands on.
The canoes themselves, splintered and broken, filled with sand and coral- boulders, were towed out to ten fathoms of water and sunk.
"Ten fathoms will be deep enough for them to work in," Sheldon said, as they walked back to the compound.
Here a Saturnalia had broken loose.

The war-songs and dances were more unrestrained, and, from abuse, the plantation blacks had turned to pelting their helpless foes with pieces of wood, handfuls of pebbles, and chunks of coral-rock.

And the seventy-five lusty cannibals clung stoically to their tree-perches, enduring the rain of missiles and snarling down promises of vengeance.
"There'll be wars for forty years on Malaita on account of this," Sheldon laughed.

"But I always fancy old Telepasse will never again attempt to rush a plantation." "Eh, you old scoundrel," he added, turning to the old chief, who sat gibbering in impotent rage at the foot of the steps.

"Now head belong you bang 'm too.