A dozen times Keith fired, but so far as he could see only his first shot had been effective. Then a shot hit the whale-boat just beneath the water-line. It split a plank, allowing a stream of water to trickle through, and lodged in the shoulder of a crouching black, who groaned, but lay still. Keith still continued to pepper the schooner for several minutes, in the vain hope that Moniz would abandon his position rather than run any further risk; but the schooner's anchor remained down and a steady stream of lead was directed at the whale-boat. Chips flew as the bullets ripped their way into the hull. Several minor injuries were inflicted on the crouching blacks and Keith himself sustained a long flesh wound on one cheek. Then a lucky shot put a second hole below the water-line, and Keith, realizing the futility of further efforts, ordered the whale-boat to be swung around.
As the blacks bent again at their oars a burst of taunting laughter came from the schooner. Keith, however, did not look back, though more than one shot was sent after him. His face was grim. He had failed. True, the task had been a well-nigh impossible one, but there was little consolation in that. Moniz had been left in undisputed possession of the field and now knew that he could fish to his heart's content—at any rate for the present.
Joan was at the water's edge when the whale
