“Getting a bit farder, sir, that’s all,” replied Bob. “But what I wants to know is, how are we going to get hold on his legs when he gets stuck? There won’t be no reaching on ’em, as I can see.”
“Hadn’t yer better hail him to hold hard, and come back for us to hitch a line round one of his fins?”
“Which line would you use, messmate?” said Bob dryly. “The old ’un or the noo ’un?”
“Eh? Which on ’em?”
“Ay. Why, there arn’t no line down here, is there? What yer talking about?”
“No,” muttered Dumlow, thoughtfully; “there arn’t no line down here, o’ course. I never thought o’ that. But s’pose he gets stuck fast, as he will farder on, what’s to be done?”
“I d’know, without old Jarette comes and has the cargo out. Why, where’s he got to!”
I was listening intently, but the whistling and rustling had ceased, and half in alarm, half hopeful that he would find a way through to where our companions were imprisoned, I strained my ears longingly for some suggestion of how far Barney could be. All at once the sound recommenced, stopped, began again, and then much nearer than I had expected there came a struggling and panting, which made my blood run cold.
“He’s hitched,” muttered Bob Hampton, and then in quite a low voice he cried into the opening—
“Where are you, mate?”