“Water’s done,” cried Drew, suddenly, “only a few more buckets.”
“Save them, then,” said Panton, sharply.
“Yes,” said Oliver, “Now, then, Panton, try one of your shells to blow the heap of faggots away.”
“Good,” cried Panton, and he ran to get one of the powder-filled tins just as a couple of fire-flies of a different kind were seen to be gliding toward the vessel from the nearest point in the forest.
“No,” said Oliver, addressing Smith, who had not spoken, but after hurling down the last bucket of water had seized his gun once more. “Those are not fire-flies but fire sticks.”
“Yes, sir, they’re a-goin’ to light us up, so that we can see to shoot some of the beggars, for up to now, it would ha’ been like aiming at shadders. Is it begin, sir?”
“No, wait till Mr Panton has thrown down the powder.”
Smith drew a long breath, and just as the two bright points of light disappeared under the faggot heap, piled now right up among the tarry stays beneath the bowsprit, Panton came up with his lighted fuse.
“Now,” he said, “down by the side or right atop?”
“Down beside it, or it will do more harm to us than to them.”