“Is the yacht near, Ned?” said Jack huskily. “What’s that to you?” cried the man fiercely. “You mind your lesson. Ought to know better than that. I want to see you swim well, and you were doing beautiful before you began to talk. No, you ain’t getting tired. If you was, as I told you, I’d make you float. Ur–r–r!”
Ned uttered a sound like a savage dog, for a panting and splashing had made him turn his head to see, not six yards behind him, a fierce-looking black face, with grinning teeth and flashing eyes, looking the more savage from the fact that, to leave his arms both at liberty, the black was holding his war-club in his grinning teeth.
The partly submerged canoe, burdened with its clinging crew, was a hundred yards away, the two which had been launched to her assistance quite three, and the yacht still two, but cutting the water fast.
Ned set his teeth; and for a brief instant thought of getting out his knife, but he knew it would be madness to attempt it, and he prepared with desperate energy for the worst.
“Don’t you take any notice of me,” he growled fiercely to his young master. “You keep on swimming. Do you hear?”
In utter ignorance of the peril behind, and influenced in his weakness and helplessness as a swimmer by one whom he instinctively felt to be at home in the water, and his master, Jack obeyed, keeping to the slow stroke with his arms, while his action with his legs was that of the well-known treading water.
All this was but brief.
After savagely shouting at Jack, Ned drew a deep breath and turned to meet the black, whose eyes glowed with race hatred as he raised one hand from the water, took the short melon-headed nulla-nulla club from his teeth, rose a little higher, and struck at his fellow-swimmer with all his might.
But it was for dear life. Ned threw himself sidewise, the head of the club grazed his shoulder as it splashed the water. Then, quick as thought, Ned
