“Bravo!” continued the captain. “My boys are the right stuff after all.”
He sprang over the boat’s side, gun in hand, as he spoke, and, influenced by the same feeling, Brace and Briscoe followed, the former thrusting his brother back.
“No, no, Free,” he cried. “You’re not strong enough yet. Stay in the boat and cover us with one of the rifles.”
A look of resentment rose in Sir Humphrey’s eyes, but he accepted the position, dropped back into a seat, exchanged his double fowling-piece for one of the rifles lying ready, and sat watching the progress of the three, who were at once supported by Dellow and Lynton, the men on board cheering as the party of five splashed through the shallow water to meet the mutineers, who were compelled to come slowly on account of their load.
The support was none too soon, for, recovering themselves, and enraged at seeing their intended victims escaping, the savages were now advancing once more at a run.
“Make for the boat, boys,” cried the captain, as he led his party past the mutineers, and then, setting the example, levelled his piece. “We three will give ’em this taste, gentlemen,” he cried. “You cover us while we reload. Now then, all together—fire!”
There were the dull flashes, the puffs of smoke, and a yelling from the enemy who, at fifty yards away, received the stinging volley and were checked, Brace and Briscoe standing fast while the captain and the two mates followed the retreating party with their load.
“Two of the enemy down,” said Briscoe coolly. “Old skipper will think he and his men are better shots than we are.”
“Let him,” said Brace. “They’re up again. Look out: they’re coming on.”
“Stand fast, then,” said Briscoe. “Let ’em have it this way. Can you let ’em come on till they’re five-and-twenty yards nearer?”