“Why, you stupid lubbers, you didn’t load!” roared the sailor. “Now, then, ground arms—load!”
A shout of derision arose from Abel and Bart, and the former took up the tone of menace now.
“Throw down your muskets, or I fire,” he cried.
“P’raps you’re not loaded neither, mate,” cried the sailor, laughing. “Now, lads. Bagnets: charge.”
His companions hesitated for a moment, and then, lowering their pieces, they made a rush for those who barred their way to the boat.
Bang!
One sharp report. The right-hand sailor span round, dropped his musket, stooped down and seized his leg beneath the knee, and dropped into a sitting position upon the sand.
“Hurt, mate?” cried the first sailor, halting.
“Leg,” was the laconic reply.
“Never mind,” cried the first sailor. “Come, on, mate.”