“It’s just as I said, Mr Dale, sir,” he whispered. “The knocking comes along over the cargo here, and there is just room for a man to creep along.”
“Hush! let me answer the knocking first,” I whispered.
“Never mind the knocking, sir; let’s get to ’em ’fore we misses the chance. Now, Neb, lad; ready?”
“Ready it is, messmate.”
“Here you are then; on’y go face downwards.”
“Would yer? Can’t breathe so well if you turns yer fizzy mahogany down.”
“And yer can’t crawl so well if yer goes with it up.”
“You had better crawl, Dumlow,” I whispered; “but try and go straight toward where the knocking came from.”
“He’ll be ’bliged to, sir. No doubt about that, ’cause there arn’t no other way. Now then, I’ll give yer a hyste. Can you manage it?”
There was a loud breathing and panting, and though Barney Blane and I could see nothing with our eyes, yet we could mentally picture the great slow-moving sailor crawling into an aperture between the beams and the heterogeneous stowing of bales and boxes, casks and crates of all kinds of goods en route for our destination.