“Not by the holy Pope,” said the skipper, with a grin. “You don’t catch me on that beach for all the whale grease afloat, or ashore either, for that matter. If that’s the game, we might as well stand off again.”
“Let’s at least have a try at that sky-pilot’s house,” growled Garnett. “Give me a couple of charges and I’ll see what I can do, anyhow.”
“As for that, go ahead; but no good’ll come of it,” muttered the skipper.
Garnett was on the forecastle in a few minutes with several cartridges for the old twelve-pounder.
The schooner was rapidly nearing the surf, and Foregaff could see the natives with great distinctness through his glass.
When she was as near as was safe to navigate, she yawed and Garnett fired.
The shot struck the crest of a comber, in spite of all he could do to elevate the gun, and ricochetted on to the sand, where a native picked it up and danced a peculiarly aggressive dance while he held it aloft in his hand.
The flag on the mission dipped gracefully three times while Garnett loaded for a second shot.
“If I only had a shell I’d make those niggers see something,” he muttered, as he rammed home the charge.