“Lay to there, Stanley.”
The man-of-war’s man obeyed. He had by this time finished patching up the man we know as Prentice, who had regained consciousness. Motionless the two boats lay on the water while the other approached. It was soon seen to be the Beale’s gasoline launch.
“What’s been happening, Stark?” demanded Lieutenant Timmons, as his craft ranged alongside. “What was all that firing?”
“Why, sir, we ran into a hotbed of revolutionists.”
“What, and they fired at you?”
“A little, sir,” came with grim humor from the middy.
“Good gracious! it sounded like a brisk engagement. Any one hurt?”
“Stanley has a slight wound on his wrist, sir. The engine-room man is also wounded—a flesh cut on his shoulder.”
“Thank Heaven it was nothing more serious! I did not know what to think when I heard the firing.”