“There, my lads, we may as well get on board,” said Bob, grimly, “I don’t like shedding my blood in the service of my country after this fashion. We can do nothing here, and it would puzzle a cat—let alone a Malay—to get through.”
So they returned on board, satisfied that there was no fear of an attack from that quarter, and the rest of the day was devoted to trying to get the steamer out of her unpleasant predicament.
Night fell with the men utterly wearied out, and, in despair, Lieutenant Johnson was taking himself to task for his bad management, as he termed it, when Bob Roberts suddenly seized him by the arm.
“What is it, Roberts?”
“A shot off yonder in the jungle,” he exclaimed.
“I did not hear it,” was the reply; and they stood listening; but there was nothing but the hum of insects and the distant splash of some reptile in the muddy river.
“If we could have only heard some news of those poor fellows, I would not have cared,” said the lieutenant after a pause. “Perhaps at this time they are anxiously hoping that help may come, and wondering why we have not sent in search of them; while we, with men and guns, are lying here helpless as a log. Oh, Roberts, it’s enough to make a man jump overboard and—”
“There it is again,” cried Bob.
“What?”
“A shot!” he cried excitedly. “I’m sure I heard a rifle-shot.”