A savage was somewhere near, there could be no doubt about
that. I did not know but he might be shooting at me, with a view to
getting my sloop and her cargo; and so I threw up my old
Martini-Henry, the rifle that kept on shooting, and the first shot
uncovered three Fuegians, who scampered from a clump of bushes where
they had been concealed, and made over the hills. I fired away a good
many cartridges, aiming under their feet to encourage their climbing.
My dear old gun woke up the hills, and at every report all three of
the savages jumped as if shot; but they kept on, and put Fuego real
estate between themselves and the _Spray_ as fast as their legs could
carry them. I took care then, more than ever before, that all my
firearms should be in order and that a supply of ammunition should
always be ready at hand. But the savages did not return, and although
I put tacks on deck every night, I never discovered that any more
visitors came, and I had only to sweep the deck of tacks carefully
every morning after.
[Illustration: "The first shot uncovered three Fuegians."]
As the days went by, the season became more favorable for a chance to
clear the strait with a fair wind, and so I made up my mind after six
attempts, being driven back each, time, to be in no further haste to
sail. The bad weather on my last return to Port Angosto for shelter
brought the Chilean gunboat _Condor_ and the Argentine cruiser
_Azopardo_ into port.
Pages:
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128