He picked up the lanthorn and led me for'ard to the bulkhead. The light showed that one of the oaken planks was slightly sprung, leaving an infinitesimal crack between its edge and the uppermost of its fellows.
"Are you planning to pry that off with your fingernails?" I taunted him.
"Neen," he answered, and conducted me to a corner whence the rats scudded as we approached.
He stirred his foot amongst some rubbish and turned up several long, wrought-iron spikes, such as are used to bolt together the heavier ship-timbers.
"Dot's plenty," he said.
I could hardly control the gush of relief that welled up in me.
"I believe it is," I whispered. "But, oh, Peter, there is such little time!"
"Enough," he grunted. "Come! We begin."
We listened at the bulkhead for signs of life on the opposite side, but not a sound came through to us, although the clamor on the upper deck and in the poop cabin seeped into our dungeon from overhead. 'Twas stiflingly hot, and Peter's first care was to strip off his buckskin shirt and leggings.
"We got to swim," he said, eying them regretfully. "You don't need clothes tonight, Bob."