“Yes. Guns, all of you,” cried Mr Rimmer, as the savages came on in the moonlight, winging arrow after arrow, which stuck in the ship’s side again and again.
“Hooray for Billy Wriggs!” yelled Smith just then, as his comrade came panting up last.
“Here y’are gents,” cried Wriggs, and with steady hands he planted the ladder he had been so long abusing right up against the side. “Now, then, up with yer, Mr Oliver Lane, sir.”
“No, no; up, Drew.”
“Quick: don’t shilly-shally,” roared Mr Rimmer. “Now, boys, fire!”
A ragged volley came from overhead as Drew ran up the ladder, and then leaned down to hold out his hand to Panton, who went up more slowly, with an arrow sticking in his shoulder.
“Now, Smith,” cried Oliver.
“No, sir. Orficers first,” was the reply.
“Confound you, you’ll be too late!” roared Mr Rimmer, and Smith sprang up as the savages came on with a rush, and, literally driven by Wriggs to follow, Oliver went up next, while Wriggs followed him so closely that he touched and helped him all the while, the ladder quivering and bending and threatening to give way beneath their weight.
The next moment the mate’s strong hands had seized Oliver’s sides and pitched him over the sail cloth to the deck, while, as Wriggs got hold of a rope and swung himself in, the ladder was seized and dragged away as a trophy taken from the enemy, the savages yelling wildly, and then increasing their rate of retreat, as a fresh volley was sent after them.