“But one moment, Barney. Could any of the cargo be pushed out of the way, so as to make more room?”
“No, sir, for sartain, ’cause it’s all wedged together, and there’s nowhere else to put it so as to make room.”
“And I don’t see, if one got there, that it could be a great deal of good, because they couldn’t get here, and we couldn’t all get there.”
“They seems to think it would be some good, sir,” growled Barney, “because they keeps on knocking. There they goes again.”
For once more the tapping commenced, and was repeated impatiently as we did not answer.
“Give ’em the sigginals, Bob,” said Dumlow, gruffly.
The tapping was answered—three taps together, two, then one, and in all manner of variations; till the others stopped, and so did we, and there was silence till Bob spoke.
“That’s all very pretty,” he said; “but, you see, it don’t lead to nothing. They raps, and seems to say, Here we are! And then we raps, and says, So are we! And so it goes on, over and over again, till you don’t know what they mean, or what you mean, or where you are. I wish we could do something to make ’em understand as we’re stuck fast.”
“The only way to do that is to tell them so,” I cried passionately. “Even if nothing more comes of it, I feel as if it would be something to feel that you can communicate with your friends when you like. We might contrive something too, some means of escape. Yes, we must get to them, my lads.”
“Then you’ll have to starve down, Barney, till you’re as thin as a skelington,” said Bob, “and then have another try.”