“Are we not somewhere near the forecastle?”
“Dessay we are, sir; but my head’s some’at like a lump o’ solid wood. What did you bring us down here for?”
“I! Bring you down! Nonsense, man. I did not bring you.”
“Then how did we come, sir? Do you know, Neb?”
“No.”
“Do you, Barney?”
“No. I only knows here we are, and my head’s a rum ’un.”
“But there must be some reason for us being here,” I said piteously, as I struggled vainly to get beyond what seemed to be a black curtain hanging between the past and present.
“Yes, sir,” said Bob, coolly; “there must be some reason.”
“Then what is it, Bob?”