“Benny! Benny Foster!”
There was but one in the vicinity who would thus address him, and although it seemed impossible Sam Hardy could be in that apparently empty hold, he leaned far over as he shouted:
“Is that you, Mr. Hardy?”
“Ay, lad, come quick! I can’t hold out much longer!”
Now Benny was alarmed, and with good cause.
Leading down to the second deck was a single stanchion; the ladder had been torn or carried away. Heeled over as the steamer was, this timber stood at an inclination of forty-five degrees, and at its foot the deck had about the same inclination in the opposite direction.
Benny waited only so long as was necessary in order to throw off his pea-jacket, and then slipped down the stanchion, holding hard on reaching the deck below lest he should slide to port.
Here all was darkness, save for the square of gray light that marked the location of the hatch, and the lad tried in vain to pierce it with his eyes in search for the surfman.
“Where are you, Mr. Hardy?” he cried falteringly. “I can’t make out anything.”
“Hanging by a rope below the second hatchway. It swings so far to port that I can’t pull myself up, and I don’t dare to drop for fear the distance may be too great. Lean over and try to get hold of me, lad; I only need a little aid, for it is possible to help myself a good bit.”