One ball struck the water before them, and went over their heads; the second passed before them, and the third struck one of the rowers, who leaped up with a yell and fell overboard.
This checked the progress of the on-coming boat.

But as they dragged their wounded companion back into the boat they uttered another defiant yell, and, in spite of the two remaining shots sent pinging at them without effect, they reached the gig, and one man sprang in to cut the grapnel line.
At that moment there was quite a little volley fired from the edge of the jungle, the major and Gregory discharging four barrels at the Malays, and then with a shout they and the six sailors came running down the sands.
The man in the gig leaped back into the boat, and as the shots from the fowling-pieces were supplemented by bullets from the men's pistols the Malays rapidly paddled away, while Mark thrust back his revolver, and waded out to where Mr Morgan was trying to raise himself in the water and kept falling back.
"No, no, not much hurt, my lad," he gasped.

"Got the gig ashore?
Hah! That's saved." He had just caught sight of Gregory's excited face as he came splashing towards him to pant hoarsely: "That's right! Hold him a moment and I'll be back." He was back directly with the gig, and by that time the men were about him, and the injured man was carried ashore, two of the sailors dragging the gig right up to the sands, upon which Mr Morgan was laid.
"Let me look," said the major, taking out his knife and ripping up the mate's shirt.

"Ah! I see.

I've had some experience of these things.
A nasty cut, my dear boy, but it isn't wide enough to let out your spirit.