“But how, man? We can’t get through all these cases and barrels and things.”
“No, sir; but praps we might manage to creep along over ’em. One on us ought to volunteer to try.”
“All right; volunteer it is,” growled Dumlow. “I’ll go.”
“There you are, Mr Dale, sir. Never say die. Wait a minute, Neb, old man, and let’s set my fingers and thumbs to work to try whether they can see a hole as ’ll soot you to go along by.”
“There can’t be any holes, Bob,” I said.
“Mebbe not, sir; but I tell you what cargo does in a voyage, specially if you get a storm or two to shake it together. You may pack it and jam it as much as you like when you’re in dock, but it’s sure to settle a bit, and leave some room up at the top. I’m going to try whether there arn’t some o’ that room here.”
We waited almost breathlessly, and listened to our fellow-prisoner as he rustled about; and then my heart gave a bound, for he exclaimed—
“Here’s plenty o’ room here, sir, just at the top, but it goes aft. This can’t be toward the bows. But it was this way as the knocking came, warn’t it?”
“No, no, no,” we all cried. “The other way.”
“Look at that,” growled Bob. “My head can’t be right yet, or else it’s the darkness as confooses a man. It’s like being in a thick fog and having to steer.”