It seemed an immense time to him before he saw a faint gleam of light, and edging himself along, found himself again under the hatchway, through a crack in which the light was shining. It was some hours before the hatch was lifted off, and he saw two men looking down.
"Water!" he said. "I am dying of thirst."
"Bring a pannikin of water," one of the men said, "but first give us a hand, and we will have him on deck."
Stooping down, they took Cyril by the shoulders and hoisted him out.
"He is a decent-looking young chap," the speaker went on. "I would have seen to him before, if I had known him to be so bad. Those fellows didn't tell us they had hurt him. Here is the water, young fellow. Can you sit up to drink it?"
Cyril sat up and drank off the contents of the pannikin.
"Why, the back of your head is all covered with blood!" the man who had before spoken said. "You must have had an ugly knock?"
"I don't care so much for that," Cyril replied. "It's the gag that hurt me. My tongue is so much swollen I can hardly speak."
"Well, you can stay here on deck if you will give me your promise not to hail any craft we may pass. If you won't do that I must put you down under hatches again."
"I will promise that willingly," Cyril said; "the more so that I can scarce speak above a whisper."