Don set to work earnestly, and watched his companion, who cleverly twisted away at the gathered-up yarn, and then rolled his work up into a ball.
The work was clumsy, but effective, and in a short time he had laid up a few yards of a very respectable line, which seemed quite capable of bearing them singly.
Foot by foot the line lengthened, and the balls of yarn grew less, when just in the middle of their task Don made a dash at Jem, and threw down the yarn.
“Here, what yer doing? You’ll get everything in a tangle, sir.”
“Hush! Some one coming.”
“I can’t hear him.”
“There is, I tell you. Listen!”
Jem held his head on one side like a magpie, and then shook it.
“Nobody,” he said; but hardly had he said the words than he dabbed the rope under him, and seized upon the yarn, threw some of the old sacks upon it, and then laid his hand on Don’s shoulder, just as the trap-door was raised softly a few inches, and a pair of eyes appeared at the broad crack.
Then the trap made a creaking noise, and a strange sailor came up, to find Jem seated on the floor tailor-fashion, and Don lying upon his face, with his arms crossed beneath his forehead, and some of the old sacking beneath him.