upon a board.

``I'm not going to stand still to be shot at,'' cried
MacWilliams. ``Let's hide or let's run. This isn't doing
anybody any good.'' But no one moved. They could hear the
singing of the bullets as they passed them whining in the air
like a banjo-string that is being tightened, and they knew they
were in equal danger from those who were firing from the boat.

``They're shooting better,'' said MacWilliams. ``They'll reach
us in a minute.''

``They've reached me already, I think,'' Langham answered, with
suppressed satisfaction, ``in the shoulder. It's nothing.'' His
unconcern was quite sincere; to a young man who had galloped
through two long halves of a football match on a strained tendon,
a scratched shoulder was not important, except as an unsought
honor.

But it was of the most importance to MacWilliams. He raised his
voice against the men in the woods in impotent fury. ``Come out,
you cowards, where we can see you,'' he cried. ``Come out where
I can shoot your black heads off.''

Clay had fired the last cartridge in his rifle, and throwing it
away drew his revolver.

``We must either swim or hide,'' he said. ``Put your heads down
and run.''