Strange Sport.
Those were exciting moments, especially for Oliver Lane, who, as he lay there with arm outstretched, was very slowly and painfully dragged over the coral rock toward the sea. Every one’s attention was so taken up by the great canoe, that for the moment he was forgotten, and, in spite of his suffering, he felt that he must not yell out for help, for fear of being heard. But just as his position was growing dangerous as well as exciting, Smith saw his peril, and throwing out one hand, took a grip of the line.
“Hadn’t I better cut him adrift, sir?” he whispered, huskily.
“No, no, hold on fast,” replied Oliver. “That’s better. I’ll hold, as well.”
For the help relieved his wrist from the strain that was cutting into the flesh.
“Don’t you leave go, sir,” said Smith, hoarsely. “I can’t hold him all alone.”
“Silence there!” said the mate. “Sound travels across the water.”
“I don’t see that it matters much,” said Panton, softly. “They must see us, for they’re evidently coming straight for this opening into the lagoon.”
“I don’t know,” replied the mate. “If they are, they may be friendly, but if they are not, we haven’t so much as a gun with us, and these mop-headed beggars are a terribly bloodthirsty lot. They think nothing of knocking a man on the head, and eating him.”
“Raw?” said Panton.