"Copped it, the devil! Copped it this time," cried Bill. "Great shootin', mum. I'll sure cut the badge off my arm an' give it to you," referring to his marksman's badge.
"I reckon that maroonin' buckaroo's feelin' partic'lar pensif, not to say some perturbed," drawled Broncho, with a low note of satisfaction in his voice.
"Broncho, you and Bill cease rowing. Get your breath and come into the firing-line," broke in Jack sharply. "Tari and I can keep the boat going, and Jim can take the steering-oar. A little more shooting like that and the dago will get sick of it," he explained.
The two men unshipped their oars with alacrity, and, with Jim, clambered aft.
"What are you sightin' at, mum?" asked Bill deferentially. "You sure 'as the range proper."
"Two-fifty. They're not getting any nearer, either; do you think so, Bill?"
"No, mum, they ain't. They're just doin' a dockyard dip now. They ain't none eager to shorten your range, I'm reckoning."
Benson's first shot keeled over another man, and the leading boat stopped pulling again. Anxiously the castaways watched her. Evidently a heated discussion was going on.
Up got Dago Charlie in the sternsheets, and they noticed that his left arm was in a sling. A gigantic black faced him, gesticulating furiously with a windmill motion of his arms.
Then out came the dago's revolver, and the black sat sullenly down again.