"I didn't say anything about the massacre of anybody, did I?" asked Gordon. "I hope they are not improving on my account. What _am_ I to do? This is getting awful. I'll have to go out and kill a few people myself. Oh, why don't that Dutch captain begin to do something! What sort of a fighter does he call himself? He wouldn't shoot at a school of porpoises. He's not--" "Here comes a message to Leonard T. Travis, American consul, Opeki," read Stedman. "It's raining messages to-day. 'Send full details of massacre of American citizens by German sailors.' Secretary of--great Scott!" gasped Stedman, interrupting himself and gazing at his instrument with horrified fascination--"the Secretary of State." "That settles it," roared Gordon, pulling at his hair and burying his face in his hands. "I have _got_ to kill some of them now." "Albert Gordon, correspondent," read Stedman, impressively, like the voice of Fate. "Is Colonel Thomas Bradley, commanding native forces at Opeki, Colonel Sir Thomas Kent-Bradley of Crimean war fame? Correspondent London _Times_, San Francisco Press Club." "Go on, go on!" said Gordon, desperately. "I'm getting used to it now. Go on!" "American consul, Opeki," read Stedman. "Home Secretary desires you to furnish list of names English residents killed during shelling of Opeki by ship of war _Kaiser_, and estimate of amount property destroyed. Stoughton, British Embassy, Washington." "Stedman!" cried Gordon, jumping to his feet, "there's a mistake here somewhere. These people cannot all have made my message read like that. Some one has altered it, and now I have got to make these people here live up to that message, whether they like being massacred and blown up or not. Don't answer any of those messages except the one from Dodge; tell him things have quieted down a bit, and that I'll send four thousand words on the flight of the natives from the village, and their encampment at the foot of the mountains, and of the exploring party we have sent out to look for the German vessel; and now I am going out to make something happen." Gordon said that he would be gone for two hours at least, and as Stedman did not feel capable of receiving any more nerve-stirring messages, he cut off all connection with Octavia by saying, "Good-by for two hours," and running away from the office. He sat down on a rock on the beach, and mopped his face with his handkerchief. "After a man has taken nothing more exciting than weather reports from Octavia for a year," he soliloquized, "it's a bit disturbing to have all the crowned heads of Europe and their secretaries calling upon you for details of a massacre that never came off." At the end of two hours Gordon returned from the consulate with a mass of manuscript in his hand.