Then Clayton stooped and picked it up. It was a bit of grimy, white paper roughly folded into a ragged square. Opening it they found a crude message printed almost illegibly, and with many evidences of an unaccustomed task. Translated, it was a warning to the Claytons to refrain from reporting the loss of the revolvers, or from repeating what the old sailor had told them—to refrain on pain of death. “I rather imagine we’ll be good,” said Clayton with a rueful smile. “About all we can do is to sit tight and wait for whatever may come.” CHAPTER II. The Savage Home Nor did they have long to wait, for the next morning as Clayton was emerging on deck for his accustomed walk before breakfast, a shot rang out, and then another, and another. The sight which met his eyes confirmed his worst fears. Facing the little knot of officers was the entire motley crew of the _Fuwalda_, and at their head stood Black Michael. At the first volley from the officers the men ran for shelter, and from points of vantage behind masts, wheel-house and cabin they returned the fire of the five men who represented the hated authority of the ship. Two of their number had gone down before the captain’s revolver. They lay where they had fallen between the combatants. But then the first mate lunged forward upon his face, and at a cry of command from Black Michael the mutineers charged the remaining four. The crew had been able to muster but six firearms, so most of them were armed with boat hooks, axes, hatchets and crowbars. The captain had emptied his revolver and was reloading as the charge was made. The second mate’s gun had jammed, and so there were but two weapons opposed to the mutineers as they bore down upon the officers, who now started to give back before the infuriated rush of their men. Both sides were cursing and swearing in a frightful manner, which, together with the reports of the firearms and the screams and groans of the wounded, turned the deck of the _Fuwalda_ to the likeness of a madhouse. Before the officers had taken a dozen backward steps the men were upon them. An ax in the hands of a burly Negro cleft the captain from forehead to chin, and an instant later the others were down: dead or wounded from dozens of blows and bullet wounds. Short and grisly had been the work of the mutineers of the _Fuwalda_, and through it all John Clayton had stood leaning carelessly beside the companionway puffing meditatively upon his pipe as though he had been but watching an indifferent cricket match. As the last officer went down he thought it was time that he returned to his wife lest some members of the crew find her alone below. Though outwardly calm and indifferent, Clayton was inwardly apprehensive and wrought up, for he feared for his wife’s safety at the hands of these ignorant, half-brutes into whose hands fate had so remorselessly thrown them.