“I’ve got to get you down,” Sandy muttered. “If you try it by yourself you’ll probably break your neck in the drop.”
Sandy had flung his legs sideways and was lowering his bound feet to the floor. Because his ankles were crossed he could put only one foot flat on the floor at a time. He leaned forward, pushing himself with the hands tied behind his back. He waited until the barge was momentarily on an even keel and then forced one foot to take his weight.
The leg was numb. It collapsed immediately. Sandy barely managed to fling himself back into the bunk, to save himself from toppling forward onto his face.
Ken could feel sweat tickling his own forehead.
Outside, the pumping engine coughed. It spit, missed fire, caught again, and then died.
“Hear that?” Ken’s voice was as cheerful as he could make it. “Cal’s having a little trouble.”
Sandy was on the edge of the bunk, ready to try again. But he held himself still to listen. “He’d better get that engine going before too long,” he muttered. He pushed his foot against the floor and once more the leg crumpled.
“Try beating your foot on the floor,” Ken said.
Sandy raised his legs and lowered them, thumping first one foot and then the other against the floor.
“What’s all the hurry—about the engine, I mean?” Ken asked, in an effort to distract Sandy’s attention from the knifelike pains that he knew must be shooting through the redhead’s feet and legs. “Barges don’t really need to be pumped out, do they? You couldn’t sink them if you tried, could you?”