“You were too quick for me,” said Panton, huskily, as Oliver reloaded, opening the breech as the gun lay across him, only one hand being at liberty for the task.
“Think they’ll come again?” said Oliver, through his teeth, for the recoil of the gun had horribly jarred his injured arm, and there were moments when he felt as if his senses were leaving him in a swoon.
“Yes, they’ll come again, and I must have a shot this time. Am I loaded with small shot too? I forget. My head is so horribly muddled.”
“Yes, I think so. Look out. I’m not ready.”
Panton was looking out, and he, too, saw the top of a mop-headed savage’s fuzz begin to appear softly over the edge of the window, then dart up quickly and bob down again, after its owner had made a quick observation.
“Don’t fire; he’ll come back.”
Lane was quite right, for a hand holding a spear was raised now, the weapon poised ready to be hurled into the cabin. Then the head of the holder appeared and bobbed down once more.
“Too quick, don’t fire,” said Oliver, hoarsely. “Wait, and we’ll fire together.”
“No, no,” said Panton, faintly. “I must have this one.”
Up came the bead again sharply, the spear was poised, and, holding on by the sill with one hand, the savage drew back to give force to his throw, which was intended for Panton, who lay there as if in a nightmare, completely paralysed, feeling that he ought to fire to save his friend, but unable to hold his gun steady for a moment, and to draw trigger.