“Where's he hurt?” cried Wilbur to the group of coolies. “Jim!--where's Jim? Where's he hurt, Jim?” Jim, the only member of the crew besides Charlie who could understand or speak English, answered: “Kai-gingh him fin' pistol, you' pistol; Charlie him fight plenty; bime-by, when he no see, one-piecee Kai-gingh he come up behin', shoot um Charlie in side--savvy?” “Did he kill him? Is he dead?” “No, I tinkum die plenty soon; him no savvy nuttin' now, him all-same sleep. Plenty soon bime-by him sleep for good, I tink.” There was little blood to be seen when Wilbur gently unwrapped the torn sleeve of a blouse that had been used as a bandage. Just under the armpit was the mark of the bullet--a small puncture already closed, half hidden under a clot or two of blood. The coolie lay quite unconscious, his eyes wide open, drawing a faint, quick breath at irregular intervals. “What do you think, mate?” asked Moran in a low voice. “I think he's got it through the lungs,” answered Wilbur, frowning in distress and perplexity. “Poor old Charlie!” Moran went down on a knee, and put a finger on the slim, corded wrist, yellow as old ivory. “Charlie,” she called--“Charlie, here, don't you know me? Wake up, old chap! It's Moran. You're not hurt so very bad, are you?” Charlie's eyes closed and opened a couple of times. “No can tell,” he answered feebly; “hurt plenty big”; then he began to cough. Wilbur drew a sigh of relief. “He's all right!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I think he's all right,” assented Moran. “First thing to do now is to get him aboard the schooner,” said Wilbur. “We'll take him right across in the beach-combers' dory here. By Jove!” he exclaimed on a sudden. “The ambergris--I'd forgotten all about it.” His heart sank. In the hideous confusion of that morning's work, all thought of the loot had been forgotten. Had the battle been for nothing, after all? The moment the beach-combers had been made aware of the meditated attack, it would have been an easy matter for them to have hidden the ambergris--destroyed it even. In two strides Wilbur had reached the beach-combers' dory and was groping in the forward cuddy. Then he uttered a great shout of satisfaction. The “stuff” was there, all of it, though the mass had been cut into quarters, three parts of it stowed in tea-flails, the fourth still reeved up in the hammock netting. “We've got it!” he cried to Moran, who had followed him. “We've got it, Moran! Over $100,000. We're rich--rich as boodlers, you and I. Oh, it was worth fighting for, after all, wasn't it? Now we'll get out of here--now we'll cut for home.” “It's only Charlie I'm thinking about,” answered Moran, hesitating. “If it wasn't for that we'd be all right. I don't know whether we did right, after all, in jumping the camp here. I wouldn't like to feel that I'd got Charlie into our quarrel only to have him killed.”