Meanwhile the boatmen were rowing steadily up stream, it having been seen to be useless to attempt pursuit of the Malays in the sampan, and they were rapidly nearing the steamer.
“’Scuse me, Mr Roberts, sir,” said Dick, who was very wet and spongy, “but your knife’s littler than mine, and if you’d pick a few o’ these here small shot outer my arms, I’d feel obliged.”
Examination showed that Dick had received quite a dozen shots in his arms and chest. They had just buried themselves beneath the skin, and were easily extracted by means of an open knife, after which Dick declared himself to be much better.
“They’ve give them Malay chaps a tickling, I know,” he cried, laughing. “I’m such a thick-skinned ’un, I am, that they only just got through. I’ll bet an even penny they’ve gone a good inch into them niggers.”
The boat now reached the steamer, where, after a warm and hearty parting, Bob stepped into the dinghy with Dick, and the remains of the painter were made fast to the cut fragment hanging from the ring.
“Now, if you’ll take my advice, Mr Roberts,” said the old sailor, “you’ll step up and get to your berth, and change your togs, while I get out the fish and wash the dinghy. Being wet won’t hurt me. What’s more is, as I shouldn’t say nought about the scrimmage; specially as we’re not hurt, or you won’t get leave again.”
“But you are hurt, Dick.”
“Bah! Don’t call that hurt, dear lad. I’m as right as nine-pence. You go on, and think about what I’ve said.”
“I will, Dick,” said Bob; “but take care of the fish.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”