Then he started, for Vince closed the lanthorn with a snap and said hoarsely:—
“Hit hard, Mike. They must go or we must, and I’m growing desperate.”
“Go on?” faltered Mike.
“Yes, and hit at the first one you can reach. They’re lying about there, on the dry sand.”
His companion’s order nerved Mike once more; and, drawing a deep breath, he whispered “All right,” though he felt all wrong.
“Don’t swing the club, or you may hit me,” said Vince. “Strike down, and I’ll do the same. Now then, both together, and I’ll keep the lanthorn between us. Begin.”
They made a rush together through the water, which, after a few steps, grew rapidly shallow; and then they were out upon soft sand, striking at the dim-looking objects just revealed to them by the light; and twice over Vince felt that he had struck something soft, but whether it was seal or sand he could not tell. Violent strokes had resounded from the roof of the echoing cavern, as Mike exerted himself to the utmost, hitting about him wildly in despair, while every few moments there was a loud splashing. Then Mike fell violently forward on to his face, for one of the frightened creatures made a dash for the water. The panting, scuffling, splashing, and wallowing ceased, and Vince held up the light.
“Where are you?” he cried, forgetting the necessity for being silent.
“Here,” said Mike, rising into a sitting position on a little bank of coarse sand, which was composed entirely of broken shells.
“Hurt?”