“Yes, it was close,” said Bob coolly. “Who has the matches?”
“Here you are, sir,” said one of the men.
“All right,” said Bob, taking the box. “Down into the boat, all of you. Go on too, Ali.”
“No, I stay with you,” said the young chief, just as another spear stuck quivering in the deck.
“Ah! I left it a bit too long,” said Bob, striking a match as he dived into the cabin, and the next moment a volume of smoke rolled up.
He then lit another match, and held it to the soaked oakum on the deck, spear after spear being thrown, several of which he escaped as by a miracle. Another moment or two, and the thick smoke formed a veil between the two young men and their enemies, who threw spear after spear, but without effect.
“Won’t they be fine and mad?” cried Bob. “Here, give me your rifle, Ali, old fellow, and I’ll have a couple of shots at them. No, I won’t,” he said, handing the rifle back; “I can’t shoot in cold blood. Come along, or we shall be roasted ready for our friends there, if they are disposed to be cannibals. My word, how she burns!”
His last words were not uncalled for, as the light wood of which the Malay vessel was composed began to blaze furiously; so fast indeed, that the middy and his friend were driven into making rather an undignified retreat before the great leaping tongues of flame and the rolling volumes of smoke that in a few minutes ran from end to end of the vessel.
“Push off, my lads,” cried Bob, as he took his place in the stern-sheets, coughing and sneezing from the effects of the pungent smoke. “Give way!” he cried; “there’s a signal flying for our return.”
Just then a shot came from the steamer as well, and with the Malays beginning to fire at them from among the reeds, the cutter was rowed rapidly back to the steamer’s side, the prahu meanwhile blazing furiously, and promising soon to burn down to the water’s edge.