“No, no, my lads; it’s horrible for you,” said Murray, as he tramped on, fighting with his despair.
“’Tarn’t wuss for us, sir, than it is for you,” said Tom.
“Poor fellows!” thought the midshipman, and he ground his teeth with rage and pain. “But I ought to have led them better.” Then aloud, as an idea struck him, “You, Tom, fire a shot upward, and then as he reloads, the next man fire, as I give orders. The others listen for the reply. Some of our fellows must hear the shots.—Halt!”
The men stood together in the deep gloom, for the smoke rose from around them in every direction.
Then, heard distinctly above the roar and crackle of the flames, came the clear sharp-sounding report of the seaman’s musket.
“Number two make ready!” cried Murray, and then, “What’s that?” For something passed them with a faint hiss, and as it seemed to the lad, stuck in the smoking earth.
“Spear, I think, sir,” growled Tom May.
“Impossible! Piece of bamboo or palm fallen from above. Now then, Number Two—Fire!”
There was the sharp report, followed directly by another whishing sound and a thud in the earth.
“Spear it is,” growled May.