“The breech-block, Chips.”
“Hooroar!”
It was some little time before another word was spoken, during which period the men had been rowing hard, and the boatswain, who had got hold of the rudder-lines, was steering almost at random for the shore, taking his bearings as well as he could from the gunboat, out of whose funnel sparks kept flying, and a lurid glare appeared upon the cloud of smoke which floated out, pointing to the fact that the stokers were hard at work.
“Mr Burnett—Mr Poole, sir,” said Butters, at last, “I aren’t at all satisfied about the way we are going. I suppose we may speak out now?”
“Oh yes,” cried Fitz; “I don’t suppose they can hear us, and if they did they couldn’t do us any harm, for it must be impossible for them to make us out.”
“Oh yes, sir,” cried the boatswain. “No fear of that.”
“But what do you mean about not being satisfied?”
“Well, sir, my eyes is pretty good, and if you give me a fair start I can take my bearings pretty easy from the stars when I knows what time it is. But you see, it’s quite another thing to hit the mouth of that little river in the dark. I know the land’s right in front, but whether we are south’ard or north’ard of where the schooner lays is more than I can tell, and there’s some awkward surf upon some of the rocks of this ’ere coast. Will you give your orders, please.”
“Well, I don’t know that I can,” replied Fitz. “I think the best thing is to lie-to till daylight. What do you say, Poole?” he continued, from his position to where Poole was, right forward.
“Same as you do,” was the reply. “It’s impossible to make for the river now. We may be only getting farther away.”