“Keep the schooner off, and follow at a distance,” roared Mark.
Bang!
There was a puff of smoke, the dull thud of a bullet striking the side of the cabin window, and, directly following, the sharp report.
“Loose the schooner,” yelled Mark, between his hands.
“Go in, yew,” roared the man in the boat, presenting his pistol again; but at that moment Tom Fillot took aim with an empty bottle he had kicked from out of a locker, and hurled it over Mark’s head with all his might.
So true was Tom’s aim, and so swiftly was the bottle sent, that the American had not time to avoid it, and received a heavy blow in the chest, sufficient to disorder his aim as he fired again.
“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Dance, who seemed quite clear again in his head.
“Quick, then,” cried Mark, excitedly. “Cut the tow-rope and stand off.”
“Yah!” came in a roar from the boat, as the man suddenly sat down, “give way—pull, boys—pull like steam!”
The men began to send the boat through the water, making it foam, and they had but a cable’s length to go, but the moments were lengthened out by excitement, and it seemed to Mark as if Joe Dance would never get the cable cut in time.