“Yes, sir, and something else, too,” growled Wriggs. “Look yonder behind yer. Niggers—a whole ship’s crew on ’em and they’re coming arter us—there under the moon.”
“Yes,” said Oliver sharply. “Now, then, for the brig. Sharp’s the word.”
“Where is it?” asked Panton excitedly, as he too caught sight of the undefined hazy figures of the Papuans beneath the moon.
“There in that patch of fog: the top mast shows above it. Altogether: run.”
They set off at full speed, nerved by a yell from the savages, when, all at once, the thin mist which had hidden the ship was cut in half a dozen places by flashes of light. The dull reports of as many rifles smote their ears, and as Oliver uttered a sharp cry, Wriggs went down with a rush, carrying with him the ladder, which fell crosswise and tripped up Panton and Smith, who both came with a crash to the ground.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Value of a Ladder.
A yell of triumph rose from the savages, and they stopped short to send a little flight of arrows at the knot of men struggling to their feet—no easy task, for Panton’s right leg had gone between two of the rounds, and as he strove to get up he jerked the implement, and upset Smith again.