“I left Smith with them, but he’s here,” panted the mate, as he passed the sailor, who was hurrying back horrified by the cry he had heard.
They were just in time to see the cabin window blocked up by black heads, whose owners were trying to force their way in, while a couple of fierce-looking wretches had their clubs raised as if about to dash out the brains of the two injured passengers.
There was no time to take aim. The mate and Drew both drew trigger as they entered the cabin, when there was a savage yelling, the place filled with smoke. Then as it rose, Oliver Lane and Panton could be seen lying half fainting upon the cabin floor, and the open cabin window was vacant.
“The brutes!” cried Drew, running to the window to lean out and fire the second barrel of his piece at a group of the Papuans.
“Mind!” roared the mate, as Drew passed him, but his warning was not heeded in the excitement. The need, though, was evident, for the young man shrank away startled and horrified as half a dozen arrows came with a whizz and stuck here and there in the woodwork, and two in the ceiling, while a spear struck off his cap, and then fell and stuck with a loud thud in the cabin floor, not a couple of inches from one of Oliver Lane’s legs.
“Hurt?” cried the mate, excitedly.
“Yes—no—I can’t tell,” said Drew, whose hands trembled as he reloaded his gun.
“But you must know,” cried the mate, seizing his arm and gazing at him searchingly.
“No: I don’t know,” said Drew. “Something touched me, but I don’t feel anything now. I am certain, though: I am not wounded.”
“For heaven’s sake be careful, man!” cried the mate. “We have shelter here and must make use of it. We are regularly besieged, and how long it will last it is impossible to say.”