“Helpless, Joe. My ankle’s sprained.”
“Bad luck to it,” cried the man. “Where’s Harry Briggs?”
“All right, mate,” came in a gruff surly voice; “but you needn’t have been in such a hurry to get it done.”
“Hurry?” cried Joe. “Why, it’s only just in time. Later than we thought. It’s getting light. Now then, who else is hurt?”
There was a growl or two, and Joe shouted again—
“Is any one killed? Bah! Won’t say so if he is! What about that boat, Harry?”
“She’s fast enough, messmate.”
“Hah! That’s right. Now then, hold hard a moment. Hear ’em aboard the other boats?”
The question was unnecessary, for shouts and yells for help were evidently rising from men who had swum down-stream to the sides of their consorts, and ceased as they were dragged on board. But a low buzzing murmur kept on, as from a couple of wildly-excited crowds.
Then a sharp shrill voice began giving orders in Spanish, one being followed up with a pistol shot, which was succeeded by a yell and a partial cessation of the buzz of excitement that sounded as if coming from a swarm of human hornets.