It was an awkward and a dangerous task, for not only was the piece of forest growth swarming with enemies, but from time to time a shot or two from the marines on board the vessel came whistling through the trees.
But Tom Long was smarting from his rebuke. He wanted to act like a man, and at heart he knew he had been behaving like a boy of a very petty disposition, so, with Captain Smithers’ words yet ringing in his ears, he formed up his men, gave the word, and in skirmishing order they dashed through the trees, sending the Malays, after they had thrown a few spears, helter-skelter to right and left, save a few who were driven out in sight of the men on board the steamer, when a few shots sent them off into cover.
“Phew!” ejaculated Sergeant Lund, taking off his cap to wipe his wet forehead, and gazing admiringly at the ensign. “That’s warm work, sir.” And then he glanced at the men, who were delighted with what they called the ensign’s pluck.
“Warm? yes, sergeant. Quick! some of you fire at those niggers; they are coming back.”
A little volley at half-a-dozen Malays, who were showing menacingly on their left, sent them to the right-about, and then the men cheered, their cheer being answered from the steamer, which was only about thirty or forty yards from the shore.
“Ensign Long, ahoy!” cried Bob Roberts, leaping on to the bulwarks. “What cheer?”
“If you mean how are we getting on, and are we all safe, why don’t you say so?” cried the ensign sharply.
“All right, sir. I’ll write you a memorandum and a report,” said Bob Roberts. “Now then, how are you?”
“Captain Smithers wants to know whether you are coming ashore or going to stay on board.”
“Stay on board, Mr Long,” said the lieutenant, who had come up. “Are you all well?”