Only five hundred yards separated them—now four hundred. The oarsmen, each with his eyes fixed on Keith, continued to row steadily.
There came a puff of smoke from the schooner. A bullet struck the water fifty yards ahead of the whale-boat and ricocheted past. As the sound of the shot reached their ears the oarsmen stopped rowing.
"Washee-washee," Keith commanded sternly. The blacks bent obediently to their task again.
Sitting bolt upright, and swaying slightly to counteract the motion of the boat, Keith levelled his rifle at the schooner. He could see nobody on board, for all hands had sought cover, so he fired at the deck, more or less at random.
An instant later a shrill scream came from the schooner. A black sprang to his feet, threw up his arms, spun round and fell. A grim smile of triumph lit up Keith's face. It had been a lucky shot—one he could not hope to equal in a dozen—but it had given Moniz something to think about. Keith held up his hand as a signal to his rowers to stop. Immediately they all ducked below the gunwale, as though the frail shell of the boat were impervious to rifle fire.
Keith, however, remained in the same position, and pulled the trigger again. Two or three bullets spurted from the schooner almost simultaneously, one of them splashing into the water within a foot of the boat.
