From time to time the thumping continued, and the boys shouted encouragement to the author of the noise. As nearly as they could judge the sound came from the very center of the pile, and they were puzzled as to how anyone could be held captive under such a load and still make a noise.
“Unless,” decided Terry. “The lumber has formed some kind of a house or shelter over his head and he is safe in there.”
Before very long the perspiration was running in small streams down the foreheads of the toiling boys, and their breath was coming with increasing difficulty. The air in the hold was not good, as not very much circulated down from above, and they found themselves longing for a breath of the invigorating salt air. But they did not slow up in their job; they piled lumber to one side with a will, the new pile riding above their heads.
“We’re getting near to the bottom,” panted Jim, after they had worked for an hour and a half.
He spoke the truth, for they were now within a foot of the bottom of the pile. Gathering their strength together the boys increased their speed and gathered up the remaining boards. As they got to the bottom Don said:
“This explodes Terry’s theory. There isn’t room enough under these boards for anyone to even lie down.”
They had now reached the last board and they cleared it aside. As soon as it was disposed of they saw an iron ring and a trap door in the floor of the hold.
“Oh,” exclaimed Jim, as he bent over the ring. “The banging must have been coming from underneath this door.”
They took hold of the ring and pulled, and the trap door swung upward, to drop over backward with a crash. There was a movement in the darkness below and then a shaggy head was poked out of the trap. It was a wild-looking face, thickly bearded, with two burning eyes fixed in sunken skin. The man reached toward them, clutched with one hand, and then fell forward, his eyes closed.
“Quick,” ordered Don, bending over him. “He’s fainted. No knowing how long he has been down there. We’ve got to get him on deck.”