“Where shall we hide?” he asked Tom.
“In the forecastle.”
“Won’t we be discovered?”
Tom laughed.
“You must remember I’m at home on the Moose,” he said.
A lamp burned dimly in the forecastle, and thither Tom led the way. They passed a row of bunks, and finally came to a trap door, which he opened.
“Are we going in there?” inquired Will, peering into the dark aperture.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“A sort of storage cubby hole, and it’s warm and cozy.”