The shadow passed away; and mounting on the cabin table by the midshipman’s orders, one of the men tried hard to find some way of opening the light, but short of breaking it open with sturdy blows of a sledge-hammer, there was no possibility of escape that way.
After a time Mark whispered with Tom Fillot as to the renewal of an ascent through the cabin window and over the poop.
“Proof o’ the puddin’s in the eatin’, sir,” said the sailor. “Only way is to try.”
“Yes, by-and-by,” said Mark, “when all is quiet. Some of them are sure to go to sleep.”
For there was a good deal of talking going on upon deck, and they could smell tobacco, and once there came down the rattle of a bottle neck against a glass.
So the prisoners waited patiently in the darkness, Mark discussing from time to time the possibility of the second schooner having been captured, but they had no means of knowing. One thing was, however, certain—they were sailing very gently, evidently not in pursuit, and, judging by the stars, they were going south, and thus farther away from aid.
Making a guess at its being about midnight, and when all was wonderfully still, Mark whispered his plans to the men. They were simple enough.
He told them that he should climb up over the poop, and do so without exciting the attention of the hand at the helm, for it was possible, though doubtful, that the man set as sentry over them would be asleep. He had no reason to expect this, but it was probable, and he was going to try it.
“Best let me go first, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “You might be knocked over at once, and dropped into the sea.”
“If I am, you must haul me out again,” said the lad, coolly. “There’s a coil of signal or fishing line there, strong enough to hold me—there, in that locker. I shall make it fast round my waist, and if I get up in safety, I shall secure it to a belaying-pin, so that it will be handy for you who follow. Mind, as silently as cats. Get it out, and make it fast. Two of you can hold the end.”