For a moment he knelt almost upright, balanced by a fortunate roll of the barge. Then he slumped sideways, no longer able to bear Ken’s weight on his shoulders.
They sprawled in a tangle, Ken’s legs still fastened around Sandy’s neck, their chests heaving, their bodies aching.
Outside, the engine started again. The throb of its exhaust, muffled by the sound of wind and water, seemed steady.
Sandy groaned. “He’ll be coming back in! Get going! Get off my neck!”
Ken tugged and Sandy squirmed and wriggled. Finally Ken was free. With a burst of frenzied strength he managed to roll over on his stomach and shove himself upward to his knees. Then he began to inch his way over the floor to the place in front of the door—the spot where they wanted Cal to stop.
Sandy had also gotten to his knees in front of the bunk. He waited, panting, until the barge heaved in the right direction, and then threw himself over the edge of the lower bunk, squirming and fighting until he was on it again.
When they were both in place, Ken said, “I’ll have to tell you exactly when to kick the door shut. You won’t be able to see him, once it’s open. When I yell, you let drive.”
Sandy didn’t answer for a minute. When he did, his voice was low and jerky. “It’s no use, Ken. I wouldn’t be able to kick a ping-pong ball now.”
“Cut that out!” Ken said sharply. “You’ll do it all right. When you’ve had a minute’s rest. Listen! The engine’s stopped again! Now he’s got to work on it some more. Just relax until he comes in. Take deep breaths.”
A wash of solid water struck the side of the cabin, and water began to ooze in under the door, forming a slowly widening puddle. The kerosene lamp in its wall bracket flickered as a gust of cold wet wind rattled the windows and penetrated inside.