A hoarse, shrill cheer from Jim announced a hit. The bow of the leading boat had toppled forward over his oar, and for a moment or so it ceased pulling, whilst the man was replaced.
Loyola paled to the lips as she watched the result of her shooting, but a bullet from the dago, which drilled a neat double hole through the brim of her sombrero, stirred her up afresh.
"Sit down directly you see the smoke of his rifle," counselled the blind man.
"Hell!" muttered Bill, below his breath. "There's more sand in that gal than the whole o' Southsea beach."
As for Broncho, his eyes sparkled in keen appreciation, and her nerve inspired a fresh life in his stroke. Gripping his oar, he lay back to it with such force as to near upset Jim off the thwart by his side.
And now a strange duel began between Dago Charlie and Loyola, marooner and marooned; and as the bullets came sizzling over the whaleboat, a fire of comment and encouragement broke out amongst the castaways, their fatigue all forgotten in the excitement of the moment.
If my reader has ever been under fire he will understand the feeling which fills one in such a position.
It is a difficult one to describe. Indeed, the hum of a bullet overhead affects most men differently; but unto all who are not cowards is given a strange uplifting of the spirit, unexplainable in words, but one which sends the blood coursing through the veins with a speed and vigour which no other form of excitement is able to rival.
The sensation of the gambler at the roulette table is mild compared to it; the fighter in the prize-ring has an inkling of it; the keen mountain climber thinks he has, but is mistaken: no, no one but he who has been face-to-face with flying bullets has experienced the mightiest thrill that one's senses can receive.
I have seen men whose nerves were of such steadiness that they could walk up and down, smoking, under heavy fire; but even they, when watched closely, exhibited unmistakable signs that this thrill within gripped them.