“Nick and go that time!” cried Don, as he gained the top and threw himself exhausted upon the rock. “Just for a minute I thought it was all U.P.”
“Me too,” said Jack, with more gravity than grammar; “and, between ourselves, the sensation wasn't half pleasant, either. But, I say, are you hurt?”
“No; nothing worse than a scratch or two. And you?”
“Oh, I'm all right. Though it's little short of a miracle that we weren't spitted on those beastly pikes. Say, do you think they'll try to rush us here?”
“Hardly, after the lesson we've taught them; unless, indeed, there is a wider approach to the summit here than those steps. We ought to look about us at once so as to make sure.”
“Right you are,” assented Jack. “Let's load the muskets and leave the niggers in charge here while we take our bearin's like, as the captain used to say, poor old chap!”
But when it came to charging the muskets—old-fashioned muzzle-loaders, it will be remembered—they made an unpleasant discovery. Don had lost his powder-flask in the fight.
To make matters worse, Spottie, when called upon to produce his, confessed that he had left it on board the cutter in the hurry of the start. Only Pug's flask remained; but this, unfortunately, was nearly empty. There was barely enough powder left for three charges.
This was but one of a series of disconcerting revelations which quickly followed the loading of the muskets.
In the first place, the most careful search failed to disclose any other means of egress from the Rock. In all the length and breadth of its summit they could find no opening except the one by which they had ascended, while on every hand its sides fell away in declivities so steep and smooth that not even Bosin could have found a foothold upon them—-or in perpendicular precipices that made the head swim as one looked down from their dizzy height upon the town, or sands, or jungle, far below.