"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.
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