CHAPTER XI.
ON SECRET SERVICE.
Ned stuck grittily to his post, although at any moment one of the bullets from the firing party ashore might have terminated his career. But presently, to his delight, the fire began to slacken and grow scattering.
“Guess they’re tired of wasting lead on the night,” grinned Ned, as, having rounded the promontory, he headed the two launches out to sea a way before turning to make back toward Boca del Sierras.
In the meantime Stanley and Herc had been bending over the wounded man. His eyes were closed and his face deadly pale. Herc for an instant feared, with an unpleasant thrill, that he was in the presence of death. No such timidity, however, assailed Stanley. With a quick move he ripped off the man’s shirt, which was ominously crimsoned.
“The lantern, please, sir,” he said.
Stark handed him the lamp, which had been placed in the bottom of the launch. Stanley held it above the man’s shoulder for an instant. It revealed a wound which was bleeding freely and looked ugly. But Stanley made light of it.
“Only a flesh wound,” he pronounced, “and if what I guess is right it’s no more than the rascal deserved.”