They were very dirty;
their hair had fallen over their eyes, which were bloodshot; the
expression of their faces was imbecile. As the phaeton passed, they
hailed its occupants in thick voices, shouting against the wind
maudlin invitations to drink.
The crowd gathered at the pier comprised fully half the population
of Monrovia. It centred about the life saving crew, whose mortar
was being loaded. A stove-in lifeboat mutely attested the failure
of other efforts. The men worked busily, ramming home the powder
sack, placing the projectile with the light line attached, attending
that the reel ran freely. Their chief watched the seas and winds
through his glasses. When the preparations were finished, he
adjusted the mortar, and pulled the string. Carroll had seen this
done in practice. Now, with the recollection of that experience in
mind, she was astonished at the feeble report of the piece, and its
freedom from the dense white clouds of smoke that should have
enveloped it. The wind snatched both noise and vapour away almost
as soon as they were born. The dart with its trailer of line rose
on a long graceful curve. The reel sang. Every member of the crowd
unconsciously leaned forward in attention.
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