“How are you now, Roberts?” said the lieutenant, kindly.
“Coming round, Mr Johnson,” said Bob. “Thank-ye for picking me up.”
“Keep your thanks for to-morrow, Roberts,” said the lieutenant, bitterly. “How vexatious to make such a mess of the affair?”
“There’s another one a-coming, sir,” said Dick, softly. “You can hear the oars beating right behind us, sir.”
The lieutenant listened.
“There must be a great curve in the river here,” he said, “one that we did not notice in the fog.”
“Then it’s a precious big curve, sir, that’s all I can say,” exclaimed old Dick; “for if that ain’t t’other prahu coming down, with all sweeps out, I’m a Dutchman.”
“They never can have failed the same as we have,” exclaimed the lieutenant, listening. “No—yes—no. You are right, Dick, my man. Cease firing there. Make ready, my lads, and we’ll plump every shot we have into this one as she comes abreast, and then lay the boat alongside, and board her in the confusion. Be ready, my lads, and then, you know, down with your rifles. Cutlasses must do it afterwards.”
A few minutes of intense excitement followed, during which time every man sat with his finger on the trigger, listening to the regular beat of the prahu’s long oars as she came sweeping down at a rapid rate, evidently bent upon making her escape, like her consort, out to sea.
“If we only had a bow gun,” muttered the lieutenant. “No you be still, Roberts,” he continued; “you are weak and done up.”