He would still have a hundred yards' lead, at least, abreast the point--and, he was smiling grimly now, a hundred yards there meant life to the Gray Seal! The locker was full of a heterogeneous collection of odds and ends--a suit of oilskins, tools, tins, and cans of various sizes and descriptions.

Jimmie Dale emptied the contents, some sort of powder, of a small, round tin box overboard, and from his pocket took out the banknotes, crammed them into the box, crammed his watch in on top of them, and screwed the cover on tightly.
His fingers were flying now.

A long strip torn from the trousers' leg of the oilskins was wrapped again and again around the box--and the box was stuffed into his pocket.
The flash of a revolver shot cut the blackness behind him, then another, and another.

They were firing in a continuous stream again.

It was fairly long range, but there was always the chance of a stray bullet finding its mark.