“Too dark to see, sir,” growled Stepney. “I feel as if I’d got only one leg.”
“Ah! your leg not broken?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. I’m a-feeling for it. It’s all right, sir; it’s here, only got it doubled under me when I fell. Aren’t we going to make someone’s head ache, sir, for this?”
“We’re going to make a dash for them directly,” said Mark, in a voice full of suppressed excitement. “Ah! the light at last. Now we shall be able to see what we are going to do. Hush! what’s that?”
For there was a loud rattling of chain forward, and Mark looked inquiringly at the face of Tom Fillot, which was gradually growing plainer in the coming light.
“They’re a-hauling the chain cable out o’ the cask, sir, and running it back into the tier. Hadn’t we better make a try, sir, now they’re busy?”
“Yes. Now then, Fillot—Bannock, open that hatch, and then follow me.”
“Better let me go first, sir,” growled Tom. “I’m harder than you, and had better take the first hits.”
“Don’t talk,” cried Mark, snappishly. “Now then, can you get it open?”
“No, sir,” grumbled Tom, after a good deal of trying, thrusting and dragging at it. “Tight as a hoyster.”