The chopping was still going on while this discussion took place, and shot after shot was fired, evidently in a blind fashion, as if the man who used the revolver was unable to take an aim at any one, and merely fired to keep us away from the hatch; but now all at once we were startled by a sharp jingling of glass, and the violent swinging of one of the lanterns, which had been struck by a bullet.
“That was the result of some one aiming,” cried Mr Denning, sharply.
“If they don’t do any more damage than that it won’t matter,” said Mr Preddle.
“Look here, Brymer,” whispered Mr Frewen, speaking now after carefully watching the dimly-seen hatch for some minutes, “it strikes me that if you let them go on firing for a little longer they will be forced to surrender.”
“For want of ammunition?” said the mate.
“No; for want of air. That ventilator will not carry off the foul gas from the firing.”
“But the holes they are making will,” said the mate. “If it were not so dark you would see that the smoke is curling out from several little holes.”
Mr Frewen took a step forward; there was a sharp report, and he staggered back. “Flit?” cried Mr Preddle, excitedly. “Yes, but not hurt,” replied Mr Frewen. “The bullet struck my collar, and it was like something giving me a violent jerk.”
“Change positions every one,” said Mr Brymer in a low voice. “Hampton, the lanterns. Let them both down, and put them in the galley.”
Bob Hampton ran to one line by which they were hoisted up, I to the other; and as I was lowering mine down, I heard a shot, and a whizz like a bee flying over my head.