“Sure they sink,” Sandy grunted, “if they get enough water aboard.” He gave one last thump and then again tried his weight on his foot.
His knees buckled, but with a desperate effort he straightened up and wedged his broad shoulders against the upper bunk. He braced himself there for a moment, his face contorted with pain.
The barge tilted, lifting its forward end as if the entire Atlantic were piling up under it, thrusting it skyward. Sandy’s shoulders began to slide along the bunk, his poorly balanced body tilting sideways.
Ken twisted swiftly and thrust his legs out over the edge of the bunk, holding them stiff with all his strength. Sandy slid against them. For a moment Ken thought the redhead’s weight would push them aside, and that Sandy would fall past them to the floor. But just as Ken realized that he could no longer bear the strain, the barge reached the peak of its upward lift and began to tilt the other way. Sandy’s body slowly righted itself.
“Now,” Sandy said, “I’m—”
The pumping engine coughed and started. The boys froze. If it began to work smoothly again, Cal would certainly not remain outside in the driving wind and weather.
Just then the engine sputtered several times and died again.
“Quick!” Sandy said. “Maybe the next time he’ll make it. Force your knees apart and bring your legs down over my head. I’ll set you down pickaback.”
“You can’t!” Ken told him.
“Come on. Stop arguing.” Sandy barked the words.