As yet he had had no time in which to reckon the odds opposed to them, nor the imminence of the danger in which the expedition stood. Minor matters occupied his attention, those and vague queries as to how he should proceed. He noted with satisfaction that Tomkins and his two comrades were making excellent practice. At least half a dozen of the enemy had already fallen.
"Round with her, right round, Sam," he commanded, when the launch was near the bank. "Steady! Back her! How's that for a tree?"
With Sam aiding him at the wheel, and he himself controlling the pace of the launch, Jim soon manœuvred her beneath a tree which swept its branches right into the water. Then he threw his lever out, slowed the motor, and crawled into the cab. With Tom's help he laid the Major on his back and carefully searched for a wound. And very soon they came upon the result of the bullet. There was a huge, discoloured bump on the top of his head, while an ugly graze crossed the forehead. For the rest, he was breathing deeply and regularly, while the pupils were equal.
"Bullet knock de sense clean out ob him head," explained Tom, as if he were completely conversant with the matter. "Knock de Massa Major silly. To-morrow, when he wake up and come to himself, he hold de hands to him head. Oh, how him ache! Him feel more silly den dan he look now. But, Massa Jim, dis a bit ob hot stuff. Dis quite all right. Once de fun begin Tom like it hot and plenty. Yo bide little bit; soon dem debil fire away all dere powder and ball. Den time to make a move; den Tom hab someting more to say about de wound. Yo see dat!" and he held out a bruised and swollen hand for Jim's inspection; "scum of a black nigger do dat. Yo see. Tom not forget when de time come."
Really the big fellow was too much for Jim. Grave though the situation was, he was forced to laugh again. For Tom did not stop at threats; his words lost all their impressiveness without the gestures. And the latter, terribly fierce though they were—for when he bared his teeth in a snarl no one could look more like a demon than Tom—were instantly banished and forgotten by the fellow's well-known merry smile. Tom's six-foot smile was too catching. His comical face never failed to draw laughter from his audience.
"If you stand up and expose your ugly head like that you won't be left when the powder has been done with!" exclaimed Jim severely, suppressing his mirth. "Now, listen to this: Tom will watch up stream, Ching will keep a lookout in the downward direction, while Sam will hop ashore. Don't go more than a few feet away, lad," he warned the little negro. "Just enough to keep us from being surprised, and to allow you to rejoin instantly. Say, Tomkins, supposing we give over firing?"
A flushed face turned towards him, while the policeman regarded our hero as if he thought him demented.
"Let 'em go on shootin' and not answer!" he gasped. "Why, of all——"
"It's like this," explained Jim curtly. "All the time you fire they know where we're lying. I don't say we're likely to get bad wounds at this distance, for most of the weapons yonder are gas barrels, I reckon, but a revolver bullet might hit by accident, and then it'd be a case with one of us."
There was indecision on Tomkins's face for the space of a few seconds. To tell the truth, though an excellent fellow, he was one who boasted unusual independence, both in word and act, and while it was a fact that he had suggested that Jim should take the Major's place, he had taken it for granted that orders from our hero would not be very frequent, and that he would mainly direct by managing his motor, and seeing that a course was steered. And here he was fighting the vessel. There was something approaching a scowl on Tomkins's face as the thought flashed across his brain. He swung round to look at the enemy. But a second later he was glancing up at Jim once more, his weapon idle beside him.