"Sharks," returned Duff sententiously, pointing to several dark pointed fins that now appeared, all making for the schooner. "The rascals are never far away from a ship in these latitudes."
"This is horrible!" exclaimed the lad, pulling on one oar to turn the boat round.
"What are you doing?" demanded Duff.
"I am going to try and save some of those niggers. I know they are bad; but we made them so. I can't stand it, I tell you, to see them eaten up in that way. Look!"
There came another shriek, and a second trail of blood rose to the surface of the sea as another victim was dragged beneath.
"I know," replied Duff. "But—self preservation first. Lock there, will you!"
Regardless of their screaming comrades who were trying to reach the ship, the blacks on board were striving to turn the big Long Tom amidships so as to bring it to bear upon the yawl.
"That cannon is loaded—with slugs and scrap iron. Captain had it done in order to sweep the decks, if necessary. But they gave us no chance and the load is in it yet. Give me an oar. Pull now—for your life! Lucky it is they don't know much about sighting a gun."
Suiting his action to his words the mate literally forced the lad to obey. Other cries sounded, and Ralph caught a glimpse of two or three scrambling on board again by the aid of a rope that happened to hang over the side.
His strength was nearly gone, and only an intense resolution kept him to his task at the oar. Duff, behind Ralph, also pulled away, though the strain caused him to groan now and then.