is shot out into the water
like an arrow from a bow, and brought head around, like a teetotum.
Then, with the four oars in the hands of four men who work them with
strength and will, it goes gliding, ay, fairly bounding, on for the
outside channel.

Again it is a pull for very life, and they know it. If they had any
doubt of it before, there can be none now, for as they draw near to the
entrance of the cove they see the canoes spreading out to intercept
them. The big fierce-looking men, too, are in a state of wild
excitement, evidently purposing an attack. They cast off their skin
wraps from their shoulders, displaying their naked bronze bodies and
arms, like those of a Colossus. Each has in his hand what appears to be
a bit of cord uniting two balls, about the size of small oranges. It is
the bolas, an innocent-_looking_ thing, but in reality a missile weapon
as deadly in practised hands as a grenade or bomb-shell. That the giant
savages intend casting them is clear. Their gestures leave no room for
doubting it; they are only waiting until the boat is near enough.

The fugitives are well-nigh despairing, for she is almost near enough
now. Less than two cables' lengths are between her and the foremost of
the canoes, each holding a course straight toward the other. It seems
as though they _must_ meet. Forty strokes more, and the boat will be
among the canoes. Twenty will bring her within reach of the bolas.

And the strokes are given; but no longer to propel it in that direction,
for the point of the land spit is now on her beam, the helm is put
hard-a-port, bringing the boat's head round with a sharp sheer to
starboard, and she is clear of the cove!

The mast being already stepped, Ned and Henry now drop their oars and
hasten to hoist sail. But ere the yard can be run up to the masthead,
there comes a whizzing, booming sound--and it is caught in the _bolas_!
The mast is struck too, and the balls, whirling around and around, lash
it and the yard together, with the frumpled canvas between, as tight as
a spliced spar!

And now dismay fills the hearts of the boat's people: all chance of
escape seems gone. Two of their oars for the time are idle, and the
sail, as it were, fast furled. But no: it is loose again! for, quick as
thought, Harry Chester has drawn his knife, and, springing forward, cut
the lapping cord with one rapid slash. With equal promptness Ned Gancy,
having the halyards still in hand, hoi