[CHAPTER VII.]
THE ATTACK.
To waken Turk and Brand was the work of a moment. Both sprang up to hear Harry's explanation.
"We have no arms!" said Brand, "and so we had better be scuddin' off as soon as possible!"
Turk thrust his hand in his pocket, and pulling forth his flask of grog, eyed it wistfully and anxiously.
"Sooner than this should fall in the hands of them savages," he exclaimed, "I had better put it, do you see where by rights it belongs, meanin' the stomach of Tom Turk!"
Up went the bottle, and the old tar seemed about drinking, when it struck him that the liquor might, after all, come in use for Mary, in case they should contrive to make their escape. With a heavy sigh he thrust the bottle back into his pocket.
Meanwhile the steps drew nearer.
Harry waked Mary, and at once escorted her to the raft. Not a moment too soon, for, with a sudden yell, a large party of fierce-looking islanders, tattooed from head to foot, and looming up like demons in the faint radiance of the moon, burst forth from a clump of shrubbery, about fifty yards distant.
Waving war clubs and spears, while their long hair streamed in red, fiery clouds down their backs and shoulders, the wild fellows certainly formed a hideous spectacle!
Before the raft could be unfastened, a shower of spears came whizzing round the heads of the little party.