Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926

It was then that I learned of Hippolyte’s preparations for defense, in case of an attack from the cove.

On top of a ledge that ran above the path, and under still another ledge that formed the brow of the cliffs, he had strewn bowlders. He was up there now, darting about and chattering like a creature of the jungles in the strange throaty gurgles that escaped him in moments of excitement.

And he was turning loose the bowlders on the men trying to get up the cliffs in answer to Brakely’s cries. It was a furious bombardment, and Hippolyte alternated his attack with the bowlders with smaller rocks flung with unerring accuracy. Two of the thugs fell senseless to the beach below.

I began firing. I hit only one man — Throgg, in the shoulder. He dropped like a wounded muskrat down the cliffs.

The sound of my guns must have taken the heart out of the thugs, for sight of me peering down at them was sufficient notice that Brakely, whose cries they had heard, was out of commission. Our fortress was impregnable from below. They scuttled for cover in the nooks and crannies of the cliffs.

I realized that we had them now, for no man could stick his head out without exposing it to my fire. Hippolyte continued to send his bowlders crashing down. He gurgled gleefully, though the rocks plunged harmlessly into the cove.

“Brakely’s dead!” I shouted. “If you fellows surrender and toss your guns into the water, I won’t shoot again! If you don’t, I’ll kill every man who sticks his head out!”

I knew their positions must be highly uncomfortable, and of course they didn’t know that I lay above with a broken leg. They seemed to be considering my proposal.

Charles Throgg, wounded, whined an appeal to his mates to surrender. Three others lying Injured on the beach, one with his leg in the water, said nothing. One of them, when he did speak, cursed Throgg.

I continued to shout at them, but they refused to answer. Then I remembered the caves at the waterline. Their position wasn’t so uncomfortable as I first thought.

Hippolyte was up to something. He crawled around to one side of the cliffs, on precarious footing at times, until he stood directly above the lifeboats from the Angela Lee — the boats in which the crooks had come to the island and to Foamy Cove.

He sent a shower of big rocks toward the boats. Most of the rocks fell in the water, but presently his work told. The bottoms of both boats were smashed out. The boats lay half out and half submerged in the water — useless.

The net was tightening.

Brakely stirred behind me, but he was too weak and the agony of his broken ribs too intense to permit of attack. I didn’t expose myself to a shot by peering out at the caves below, and Hippolyte showed remarkable skill in keeping under cover on the ledges.

The men below began to answer my questions. We were still parleying on the terms of surrender when John Vernon shouted at me from overhead.

I looked up, but all I could see was Hippolyte’s beard waving at me from the ledge and his grinning face. I answered Vernon, telling him the situation in as few words as possible.

I was suffering terrible agony from the broken leg. The foot had got twisted and I couldn’t straighten it. I was talking to John Vernon when merciful insensibility overtook me.