All at once, a deep, sepulchral groan came from abaft the mizzenmast, as if some one was being smothered in the hold below; and, almost at the same instant, there echoed from the adjacent cabin—that whence the night-capped head before mentioned had popped out—a shrill scream, as of a female in distress, succeeded by the exclamation, “Gracious goodness, help us and save us! We shall all be murdered in our beds!”
“Be jabers,” ejaculated the mate, following up the captain, who had immediately rushed aft to the spot whence the groan had proceeded; “sure and that’s the Meejor’s swate voice! I’d know it onywheres, aven in the Bog of Allen!”
On the captain reaching the end of the cuddy table, which had, of course, interfered with his view, the crash of crockery which they had heard, and which had been hitherto inexplicable, became at once clear; for, there on the floor of the deck was the débris of a pile of plates and scattered fragments of cups and saucers which had been suddenly dropped by the steward in his fright and were smashed to atoms; while, in the centre of the scene of devastation, was the dungeon-like cavity of the after-hatchway, the cover of which had been shifted from its coamings by the man, in order for him to get up some of the cabin provisions from the hold, whose gloomy depths were only faintly illumined by the feeble rays of a lantern, which as it lay on its side rolling on the deck, participated in the general upset.
Captain Dinks promptly took up the lantern, holding it over the open hatchway; and, as he did so, a second groan came from below, more hollow and sepulchral than before.
“Who’s there?” shouted the captain down the hatchway.
There was no reply, save a fainter moan, apparently further away in the distance, followed by a sort of gurgling sound, and then the fall of some heavy object was heard in the hold.
“Who’s there below?” repeated the captain, endeavouring to pierce the cimmerian darkness by waving the lighted lantern about and holding it as far down the hatchway as his arm could reach. “Speak or I’ll fire!”
This was an empty threat of the skipper’s, as he held no weapon in his hand save the lantern; but it had the necessary effect all the same.
“It’s only me, massa,” said a thick guttural voice from below; “only me,” repeated the voice pleadingly. “Goramighty, massa, don’t shoot!”
“And who’s me?” interrogated the captain sternly, as the mate and the passenger looked at each other inquiringly, a smile creeping over Mr Meldrum’s face, while the Irishman screwed up his left eye into a palpable wink.