At last, after some minutes that felt like hours, they went on and down the ladder to the lower deck.
“Phew!” panted Bob Hampton. “Oh, my lad, my lad, why didn’t you whistle a jig out of the window?”
“Why didn’t I what?” I cried.
“Whistle a toon, my lad. That would ha’ let ’em know you could hear ’em talking, and they’d ha’ gone. Hold me tight, please, for I’m ’bout spent.”
The man spoke so faintly that we took alarm.
“No, no, Bob,” I whispered. “Don’t say that. Rest for a few moments, and then climb back on deck.”
“Rest?” he said, in so pitiful a tone that I tightened my grasp all I possibly could, and felt how absurd my advice was to a man in such a position.
“You couldn’t haul me in?” he whispered faintly.
“No,” I said despairingly. “It is impossible.”
“Impossible it is,” he groaned. “Well, I shall have to face it.”