The cliffs trembled beneath the treble report. Jack, who in his excitement had forgotten the captain's caution, went sprawling backwards over the thwarts.
“Ho, ho, ho! flint-locks an' small-shot, a wolley's the thing, lads,” roared the captain, pointing up the creek as the smoke rolled, away.
“We ne'er see our foes but we wants 'em to stay,
An' they never see us but they wants us away;
When they runs, why, we follows an' runs 'em ashore,
For if they won't fight us, we can't do no more!”
The “wolley” had told. Driven frantic by the stinging shot, the natives had leapt to their feet and overturned four out of the seven deeply-laden canoes, whose late occupants were now struggling in the water.
“They've a softer berth of it than I, anyway,” said Jack from the bottom of the boat, as he rubbed his shoulder ruefully. “I shall get at the muzzle end of your thundering old blunderbuss next time, captain. Hullo, there's that rascally——”
The remainder of the exclamation was drowned in the creek, for as he uttered it Jack took a header over the stern.
“Shift my ballast, what's the young dog arter now? I axes,” cried the captain, gazing aghast at the spot where Jack had disappeared.