As though escaping from the clutches of some hideous nightmare, I felt the power of movement returning. My arms and legs twitched playfully, the warm blood coursed through my back again, my hair subsided, and my mouth instinctively opened to let forth a loud cry for help. Croft was at my side instantly, tugging at the dead weight which lay across my legs. Bruised and shaken, I wriggled my way back to freedom. Then we staggered over to the cage, gulped down a brandy, pocketed our revolvers and returned to the fray. Ten minutes later, all the gorillas, except Little Willie, were safely bound, the gas was turned off and we were sitting in the cage again, slowly recuperating. The perspiration was streaming from me, my hands and knees were trembling, and I felt as weak as a man recovering from a severe attack of influenza. "It--never rains--but it pours!" panted Croft. "Yes!" I gasped. "Even the perspiration! . . . We're understaffed. It's too much--for only two of us." Having no desire for further captures that afternoon, we presently fired half-a-dozen revolver shots to scare off any intending intruders and then let up the balloons with a string of five Stars and Stripes and Union Jacks attached, as a signal to the aerodrome. With a very luke-warm interest, after so much excitement, we watched the gorillas slowly regain consciousness, and listened sympathetically to the male's language when he fully awoke to the general state of affairs. It must have been extremely galling to find himself sitting bound, helpless and dazed, after the dramatic and promising appearance which he had made only a few minutes previously. But to suffer this indignity in full view of his womenfolk must indeed have been draining the cup of misery to the dregs. Whether or not the others were taunting him I do not know, but after listening to some of their softer and more ladylike remarks, he broke out into a terrible paroxysm of fury, glaring in our direction and barking and roaring at us for quite five minutes with hardly a pause for breath. Add to this deafening noise the encouraging screams of the three young females, the croaks of the old grandmother, and the harsh yells of Little Willie as he dashed to and fro, deliberately fanning the flames of hatred and revenge. The result may be imagined. Our bruised nerves threatened to give way under the strain. "Give 'em a little gas, for the love of glory!" shouted Croft. In this way we quietened them down, until Gran'pa arrived from the aerodrome, followed by a single file of stretcher bearers. "This is very gratifying, George," he said. "When I counted those flags I could hardly believe my eyes. You get extraordinary luck. Everything you touch seems to turn to--gorilla!" The gas having been cut off, the chorus of hate broke loose again. "We can't have this din," shouted Gran'pa.