“Hist! Fetch up the other fellows quietly-armed.”
“What’s up, sir?”
“The Yanks have bored a hole through into the bottom of the cask, and the water’s nearly out.”
Tom ran aft, barefooted, and without a sound, while Mark stepped back to the hatch, and reached over to feel for the water once more.
As he did so, and was straining over, with the edge of the cask against his armpit, he distinctly felt it heave up, as if men were busy raising it from below.
Chapter Thirty Three.
Methodical Madness.
Those were thrilling moments in the darkness, as one side of the cask was heaved up and let down again, probably to try its weight, for it was by no means empty, and the water within washed to and fro, and then made whispering noises as it subsided, but the trickling sound went on.