Jim, as he slipped behind a clump of brushwood, recognised the spot as one which he and Tari had stumbled upon during their exploration of the afternoon, and he remembered that it was on the opposite side of the island to the signal palm, the lagoon coming in between. The conspirators had chosen their spot well. It was far out of earshot of the camp, and seemed as if designed purposely for the object which they had in view. Silently they went about their preparations, whilst the boy watched them from his hiding-place with a horror in his eyes. Making use of a grummet, Tari, with the coil of rope round his shoulders, went up the tree like a cat. To any one who has never seen a native go up a tree in this fashion it is a most astonishing sight. The rope circles the tree and the man's thighs, whilst he keeps his balance with his feet pressed against the trunk, progressing upwards by jerks. Each time, as he takes the pressure of his body off the rope, he slips the grummet higher up the trunk, tautening it up with his thighs before it can drop back again. In this way Tari was soon at the top, and producing the boat's halliard-block and a salvagee strop from inside his shirt, he fixed them on the strongest branch he could find; then, reeving the rope, lowered one end to the ground. This Bill Benson and Broncho took hold of, and the Kanaka taking the other, they lowered him easily to the ground, thus testing at the same time the efficiency of their gibbet. The doomed man was now led under the dangling loop, one of the executioners still keeping a firm hold on the rope to his wrists, whilst the others removed the gag. Immediately the miserable wretch, dropping on his knees, burst into a piteous appeal for mercy. The bosun's mate turned away, unable to stand the dreadful sight, but Broncho was made of sterner stuff, and listened to the raving, distracted words with an unshaken sternness. "Have mercy!" whimpered the terrified ruffian. "Have mercy! I'll be your slave. Anything! I'll give you gold [eagerly], for I have it where I can lay hands on it. I swear it. By God, I swear it; only let me go!" Slowly Broncho shook his head. "Christ! Have you no pity in your soul? Think what you are doing! This is murder--cruel, bloody murder!" "It's a shore-enuff proper-conducted lynchin'," growled the cowboy. "What have I done to you? Lord God! What have I done? Free my hands and I'll fight you square, anyhow you like! Anything but this, this--this horrible death. I ain't fit to die. Lemme free an' have a chance in a square fight." "I don't fight wi' skunks o' your breed!" came the scornful answer. At this the wretch broke down utterly and exhausted himself in wild oaths of abuse; but after a string or two of these Broncho cut in impatiently: "I allow you'd better throw off any prayer-stock you-alls wishes to cut loose. Your time's gettin' some scarce."