Don started and stared, for something had shaken him as if a sudden blow had been given against the floor.
What did it all mean? Where was he? What window was that through which the sun shone brightly, and why was he in that rough loft, in company with a man lying asleep on some sacks?
Memory filled up the vacuum directly, and he knew that his head was aching, and that he had been fast asleep.
Crash!
That was a bolt shot back, and the noise which awakened him must have been the big step ladder placed against the beam beneath the trap-door.
As Don watched he saw the trap, like a square piece of the floor, rise up slowly, and a rough, red face appear, framed in hair.
“Ship ahoy!” shouted the owner of the face. “What cheer, messmates? Want your hot water?”
Just then the man, whose hands were out of sight, and who had kept on pushing up the trap-door with his head, gave it a final thrust, and the door fell over with a loud flap, which made Jem Wimble sit up, with his face so swollen and bruised that his eyes were half-closed; and this and his dirty face gave him an aspect that was more ludicrous than strange.
“What’s the matter?” he said sharply. “Who are you? I—where—was—to me. Have I been a-dreaming? No: we’re pressed!”
“Pressed you are, my lads; and Bosun Jones has sent you up some hot slops and soft tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons.”