“I’m sure I was,” cried Fitz, “till the thought came that perhaps I had not turned the screw far enough. That thought made me quite jump. Then there was the feeling the screw move. I felt as if I could see the great thread all shining as it glided along, while I must have seen the block when I lifted it out.”
“But that was all fancy of course. It was the darkest, blackest night I ever saw.”
“I know, but I certainly seemed to see the block as I held it hugged to my breast.”
“I should have liked to see you when you were making for the side all top-heavy, and went flying over after the great quoin as you called it. My word, Fitz, that was a flying leap overboard.”
“Ugh!” ejaculated the latter with a shudder. “As I go over the task again, it seems as if it is all part of a queer dream.”
“A very lively one though,” said Poole, laughing. “I say, I wonder how deep you went down.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it! Ever so far. It seemed a terribly long time all going down and down, feeling all that time as if I should never come up again, and thinking about sharks too. Why, it couldn’t have been half-a-minute from the time I touched the water till I was at the top again swimming, and yet it seemed to be an hour at least.”
“It does seem long at a time like that. But I say, what a narrow escape that was.”
“Of being caught, yes.”
“No, no,” cried Poole; “I mean when the breech-block went over the side.”