“Bad shot at close quarters,” said the major; “and they are moving off. Can’t you whistle for the wind and let’s show them our heels!”
“The wind will come as soon as we get out beyond the shelter of the point,” said the captain. “Pull, my lads.”
The men tugged at the long sweeps, but the cutter was so substantial and heavily-built that she moved very slowly through the water, beside which, it was extremely nervous work to keep on pulling while at intervals of a few minutes there came a shot from one or other of the receding praus. Still they progressed, and if once they could get over a few hundred yards there was a prospect of their clearing the rocks off the south point and getting well along the lagoon.
Shot after shot, some whistling by the mast, some striking the water, and others going before or behind, but not one touched the cutter, and as the three praus rowed out and grew more distant the practice became more wild.
“Ah!” said the major, “being shot at is very exciting; but I don’t think I like it after all. How are you setting on, Mark?”
“I’m all right, sir.”
“Well, ladies, we shall not have breakfast till two hours after sunrise,” said the major, as he bent over the entrance to the rough cabin where they were sheltered, “so I should advise a short nap.”
A sad smile was the only reply to the major’s cheery remark, and he nodded and then sighed as he turned to the captain.
“Cease firing, eh?” he said as there was a cessation. “They must be near the end of the point. Now, Strong.”
“In another ten minutes they will be round it, and—what’s that, Gregory? Did we touch on a rock?”