"Only the oars, and they'll make poor weapons," answered Captain Broadbeam, "I'm afraid it's all up with us, lad. We must look for the worst."
"Can't we outdistance them by rowing?"
"I think not."
"But we might reach shore again and take to the jungle. That will be better than being slaughtered on the ocean."
"Yes, yes, let us try for the shore!" burst out the doctor. "We have at least a fighting chance of reaching it."
As quickly as possible the rowboat was turned about, and its bow pointed to a distant headland. All pulled with might and main, the perspiration pouring down their faces and backs.
But it was useless. The war canoes crept closer and closer.
And now, as if to make doubly sure of them, there suddenly appeared upon the beach another crowd of natives, brandishing knives and war clubs.
The din was hideous, and the cry from the shore was echoed and re-echoed by the savages in the canoes.
They felt certain that the whites would become their prisoners.