Jimpny groaned and seemed to cling spasmodically to the shrouds as the great seaman slipped the end of the rope round him and made it fast. After which he passed the other end of the rope over a stay and lowered it down to the deck.
“Ready below?” he shouted.
“All right!” came up.
“You get a bit higher, youngster. That’s your sort. Now, my London prime, let go with them hands.”
“No, no,” groaned the unfortunate man. “I dare not.”
“Then I shall have to make you,” roared the boatswain. “Heave ahead there!”
The rope tightened and there was a tremendous strain upon the man’s chest, while, by a dexterous snatch, Small jerked one of the clinging hands free and thrust Jimpny off the shroud, making him swing round in the air, and this helped to jerk the other hand from its grip.
“Now you have him. Down he goes.”
It was all so rapidly done that it took Mark’s breath away. One minute the miserable man was clinging there half fainting, the next he was swinging in the air and being slowly lowered down to the deck.
“You don’t want sarving that way, my lad,” said the boatswain laughing. “Catch hold o’ that rope and slide down. I’ll go this way.”