Within the next ten minutes the rest of the ore had been shipped. With loud crashings, interspersed with hoarse shouts, harshly-uttered commands and an occasional toot of warning from the ship's whistle, the hatch-covers were put in place and the ship made ready for her journey down the Great Lakes.
There followed a moment of inactivity; then came a blast of the whistle fully a minute in duration. It was the signal that the ship was about to back out of her slip, warning all other craft to keep clear.
The propeller began to churn the waters of the harbor and the ore carrier, with its cargo of ten thousand tons of iron ore, backed slowly out into the stream.
Bob Jarvis rolled over until he was practically standing on his head and shoulders. He toppled over on his back with a jolt that woke him up. The lad gave a kick and some one grunted.
"Hey, there, take your foot out of my stomach, whoever you are. Is that you, Bob?"
"I—I don't know. Hello, Steve, that you?"
"I guess it's both of us. Ugh! My mouth is so full of ore that I can hard—hardly talk."
"I've got a dark red taste in my own mouth. I've swallowed enough ore to make a steel rail. Do you know where we are?"
"We have fallen into the hold of a ship, and we are lucky that we are not dead."
"Maybe we are and don't know it," jeered Jarvis, pulling himself up. He tried to get to his feet, but the ore slipped from under him, leaving him at the bottom against the side of the vessel again.