CHAPTER XLVII
Margaret was right. The mutiny is not violating standards and
precedents. We have had our hands full for days and nights. Ditman
Olansen, the crank-eyed Berserker, has been killed by Wada, and the
training-ship boy, the one lone cadet of our breed, has gone overside
with the regulation sack of coal at his feet. The poop has been
rushed. My illuminating invention has proved a success. The men are
getting hungry, and we still sit in command in the high place.
First of all the attack on the poop, two nights ago, in Margaret's
watch. No; first, I have made another invention. Assisted by the
old steward, who knows, as a Chinese ought, a deal about fireworks,
and getting my materials from our signal rockets and Roman candles, I
manufactured half a dozen bombs. I don't really think they are very
deadly, and I know our extemporized fuses are slower than our voyage
is at the present time; but nevertheless the bombs have served the
purpose, as you shall see.
And now to the attempt to rush the poop.
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