“Fire!” cried the skipper, and with slow regularity shot after shot rang out, to be followed by a ragged volley from the enemy, the bullets whizzing overhead and pattering amongst the rigging of the well-moored vessel, but doing no real harm.
“Keep it up steadily, my lads,” shouted the skipper. “No hurry. One hit is worth five hundred misses. We mustn’t let them board if we can keep them back. Go on firing till they are close up, and then cutlasses and bars.”
But in spite of the steady defence the enemy came on, showing no sign of shrinking, firing rapidly and responding to their officers’ orders with savage defiant yells, while shots came thick and fast, the two lads growing so excited as they watched the fray that they forgot the danger and the nearness of the enemy coming on.
“They are showing more pluck this time, Burgess,” said the skipper, taking out his revolver and unconsciously turning the chambers to see that all was right.
“Yes,” growled the mate. “It’s a horrible nuisance, for I don’t want to fight. But we’ve made rather a mess of it, after all.”
“What do you mean?” said the skipper. “Ought to have dropped that other anchor.”
“Why?” said the skipper sharply. “Because they may row right up and cut us adrift.”
“Yes,” said the skipper quietly; “it would have been as well. Take a rifle and go forward if they try to pass us, and pick off every man who attempts to cut the cable.”
“All right,” replied the mate; “I will if there is time. But in five minutes we shall be busy driving these chaps back into their boats, and they will be swarming up the sides like so many monkeys.”
“Yes,” said the skipper. “But you must do it if there is time. They don’t seem to mind our firing a bit.”