But the craft engaging the junk did none of these things. She was within easy musketry range. Raxworthy was aware of this, because he could hear above the shouts of defiance the ever-increasing cries and groans of the wounded.
“They’re going it hot and strong,” observed the doctor.
“We’re safe enough here.”
“From bullets—yes; but how about it if the junk’s sent to the bottom?”
“She isn’t yet,” replied Raxworthy. “She doesn’t appear to be leaking. We’d hear the water pouring in if she were.”
“All the same, I’d rather be on deck. Never did like being shut up in the dark. Why, I don’t know. Probably I had a fright when I was a child. . . . What are you doing?”
“Having a grope round just to get my bearings,” replied the midshipman. “Ough!”
“What is it?”
“Bumped my head on the same place as I got that whack.”
“One would,” rejoined the doctor. “It’s the perversity of things. If you bark your shin, for example, you’ll probably knock it half a dozen times in as many days. Go slow.”