“Pooh! he couldn’t aim straight in the dark. I’m all right. But I say: there’s water in the boat. Not much, but I can hear it gurgling in. Why, Mike,” he cried excitedly, after a few moments’ search, “here’s a little round hole close down by the keel. There, I’ve stopped it up with a finger; it’s where his bullet must have gone through. Got your handkerchief?”
“Yes.”
“Tear off a piece, to make a plug about twice as big as a physic-bottle cork.”
There was the sound of tearing, and then Mike handed the piece of cotton, which was carefully thrust into the clean, round hole, effectually plugging it; after which Vince proposed that they should each take an oar.
“Can’t row,” said Mike shortly.
“No, but we may want to fend her off from a rock. Hullo! where are the lanthorns now? I can’t see either the lugger or the boat.”
Mike looked back, but nothing was visible.
“We’ve come round some rock,” said Vince. “We shall see them again directly.”
But the minutes glided on, and they saw no light—all was black around as ever, but the loud, hissing gurgle of the water told that they were being borne along by some furious current; and at last came that which they had been expecting—a heavy bump, as the prow struck against a rock-face so heavily that they were both jerked forward on to their hands, while the boat was jarred from stem to stern.
They listened with a feeling of expectant awe for the noise of water rushing in; but none came, and a little feeling about was sufficient test to prove that there was no more than had come in through the bullet hole. But while they were waiting there came another heavy blow, and their state of helplessness added to their misery.