"Are you going to bring up for the night?" asked Gerald of Reeves, who had relinquished the helm and was busily engaged in unstranding a piece of rope and encasing it in tallow from the animal they had shot.
"Rather; that's part of my ruse. The wind's falling very light, and our progress will soon be only that of the current, unless we row, and that will be too risky."
Directly it grew thoroughly dark, Reeves lit one of his improvised candles, which burned steadily in the almost still air. Its appearance was greeted by a shower of bullets from the indefatigable enemy on the bank.
"Stand by with the anchor, Gerald," said the correspondent. "Don't make more noise than you can possibly help. When I say 'let go', lower the stone as softly as you can."
"All ready!" announced Gerald from the bow of the boat.
Meanwhile the director of operations had wrenched up one of the bottom boards, and, lighting a second candle, stuck it firmly in the centre of the plank. Then, carefully screening the light, he dropped the piece of timber over the side of the boat away from the bank from which the Arabs were firing.
"Let go," he whispered, blowing out the first light.
The rough-and-ready anchor brought the boat round head to current, while the board, with its candle burning dimly, drifted downstream, the mark for nearly a dozen muskets.
"Now they can waste powder and shot as much as they jolly well please," exclaimed Reeves, as the sound of the firing grew fainter and fainter. "Luckily there are no King's prizemen amongst them, and fifty to one they won't shift that candle at a hundred yards."
The night passed without interruption, and daylight revealed no sign of the Arabs.