Captain Sandoval, thus suddenly unarmed, set his face toward the barracks and ran with all his speed, shouting at every jump for the soldiers.
"Don't hurt anybody!" panted Matt. "Don't make this a serious matter instead of a—a farce!"
"It will be a mighty serious matter if we don't get you down to the Grampus in short order," puffed Glennie.
He had toppled over the marine whom he had chosen for an antagonist and was struggling to get his musket; but the marine, agile as a monkey, rolled out from under the ensign's gripping fingers, bounded erect, and made off into the gloom like an antelope.
A blow, and then a grab and a jerk, all judiciously given, had placed Ferral in possession of the weapon belonging to the other marine. Those who were unarmed had rushed away on the track of the captain. The one who had retained his musket, however, paused somewhere among the shadows and began to fire.
Bang!
A bullet whistled through the air close to Glennie's head.
"Cut for it!" shouted Dick. "Don't let any grass grow under you! This way, Matt."
Dick started for the wharf, pointing so as to reach it at the nearest point to the submarine. Matt and Glennie pushed after him—three fleeing streaks rushing for the water front of Punta Arenas with the clamor of alarmed soldiers awaking frantic echoes around the barracks.
Bang! went a revolver.