There was no stopping to untie the rope which ran across the gunwale. Pete’s knife flew out and sawed through it in a moment or two. Then one vigorous thrust sent the craft into the stream; but before they had cleared the creek there was a shout, followed by the whiz of a bullet and the report of a musket.
“All right; fire away. Shouldn’t come back if you was a ridgment of zojers,” cried Pete, who was sending the boat along vigorously with the pole. “Lie down, Master Nic; they’re going to shoot again.”
“And leave you there?” cried Nic. “No.”
Instead of screening himself by the boat’s side, Nic seized two oars, got them over the rowlocks, and as soon as they were in the river he began to pull with all his might, watching the figure of Saunders limping slowly down after them and stopping from time to time for a shot; Samson and Xerxes, wakened by the firing, hurrying up, handing him a fresh musket, and reloading each time.
“Don’t see nothing of the gaffer,” said Pete coolly; “he must have been hurt too, or he’d have been after us. There come the blacks. Hear that?”
Plainly enough, for the whistle was very shrill, and it was answered by the dogs, which came tearing round the end of the shed to follow the overseer.
“Row faster than they can zwim,” said Pete, laying down the pole. “Here, give us one oar, Master Nic,” he continued; and, taking his seat, the oar was handed to him, and, aided by the current, the boat began to move more swiftly.
“Why, there’s the gaffer,” cried Pete suddenly; and Nic saw that the settler was coming down from the house by the help of a stick, while the dogs stood close by Saunders, barking loudly.
“There must have been a desperate fight in the night, Pete,” cried Nic. “Look, there are two of the blacks with their heads tied up.”
“And jolly glad I am, Master Nic. I shouldn’t have cried much if they’d all killed one another and left nothing but the bones. There, put that gun away, stoopid; you can’t hit us at this distance.”