“All right; I’ll mind,” said Lynton, looking at Brace and smiling; “but this ought to be stopped, for the niggers are wonderfully clever at hitting the brig. They shoot right up into the air and guess at their aim, so that the arrows seem to come down out of the sky.”
“Yes,” said Brace, who was now gradually beginning to take an excited interest in the encounter with the natives; “it’s the way they shoot the floating turtles, so that their arrows pierce the shell instead of glancing off.”
“There’s another,” said Dellow. “Well, I wish they’d keep to their turtles. I don’t like them practising on me. What’s that one like, Mr Brace? Is the point broken?”
“No,” said Brace, who had crept sidewise along the deck so as to reach the last arrow that had come on board, and carefully drawn it out, to sit examining the head.
“Poisoned?” asked the mate.
“I’m afraid so,” replied Brace. “Look at this stuff lying in the groove,” and he pointed to what appeared to be some kind of gum, adhering to the roughly-made head.
“Ah! looks nasty,” said Briscoe; “but it isn’t obliged to be dangerous to human beings. You see, they use their arrows principally for small game. I don’t believe, mind you, that your brother’s going to be much the worse for his trouble.”
“I sincerely hope not,” said Brace, with a sigh.
“So does everybody, sir,” said the mate. “But come: it’s our turn now. Let’s see if we can’t stop this game before some of us are hit.”
“Yes,” said Briscoe, who had taken up, examined, and then smelt the arrow-head, ending by moistening a paper which he drew from his pocket and rubbing the arrow-point thereon, with the result that the paper received a brownish smear and the soft iron became clear.