“What is it?” Steve asked.
“Don’t you see, sir, in the stern of each of the canoes, piled up by the steering oar, there are some heads.”
“I can’t look at them,” Steven said, drawing back from his peep-hole through the leaves.
“They are whites,” the sailor muttered. “There ain’t no doubt about it. I would give all my pay for the voyage to have the Tiger’s crew here, that we might give them murdering villains a volley.”
But Stephen did not hear him; he had thrown himself down, and the tears were running down his cheeks. The loss of the second mate, who had always been cheery and kind, and of his fellow apprentice, Joyce, completely unnerved him. Up to now he had hoped, but what before had been doubt as to their fate had now been converted into certainty.
“Don’t give way, Master Steve,” the sailor said, stooping over him and laying his hand on his shoulder. “It is a bad job, there ain’t no denying it. What happened to them half an hour ago may happen to us before long; we have got to be up and doing, sir.”
“You are right, Wilcox,” Steve said, as he rose to his feet. “In the first place, could you count the heads?”
“No; there was a pile of them in each boat; there may have been three, there may have been four in each.”
“Well, one thing is certain, Wilcox; we must find out if any of them are still alive, and if so we must try and get them out of the Malays’ hands.”
“I am ready to try, sir. When a chap sees such a thing as that he don’t seem to care much for his life; and at least if we are caught we can polish off a few of the villains before we go under, so I am game to do anything you may order.”