“Why, it’s forward somewhere,” I said, with a curious shudder running through me which was not caused by the wind and spray.
“Yes, that’s what Mr Brymer said; but he went and searched all about forward.”
“Then it must be one of the men below—one who is wounded,” I said. “Do you think we could send Mr Frewen down to his help?”
“Not without letting your prisoners loose,” said Mr Denning, decisively. “I’m sorry for the man, but he must suffer for the present.”
“It’s very horrible,” I said; “for he may be very bad—dying perhaps.”
“Yes,” said Mr Denning coldly; “but it was not our work, I suppose.”
“There it is again,” said Mr Preddle. “When the mate was here, he felt sure that some one had crept overboard, and down to what he called the stays under the bowsprit.”
“When the attack was made?” I cried. “Yes, that must be it. There it goes again. That was certainly ‘Help!’”
“Yes.”
“He must be afraid of falling. Why, the vessel keeps on driving into these great waves, and at every dip down he must be nearly drowned.”