But it was no time for speculation. The necessity for action was immediate. At any moment, for all he knew, the men might come back from the shore, and then "good-by" to his hopes of freeing the inventor.
The lad crept along the side of the tug till he reached the bow. Then he clambered up the anchor-chain, and in a jiffy stood—a wet, half-clothed figure—on the fore deck.
"I must look like a ghost or something, in these white clothes," thought the lad to himself, as he felt about in the darkness for the forescuttle. Finally he found it, and softly tapped on it.
"Who's there?" came a voice from below, which he delightedly recognized as that of Mr. Ironsides.
"Hush! It's me—Tom Dacre!" whispered the boy. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, but I am weak from lack of food and the heat in this place."
"I'll soon have you out of there," comforted Tom. "Just trust in me."
"I will, my boy," came the rejoinder. "You inspire one with confidence."
Tom, as well as he could in the darkness, examined the padlock. It was a heavy one, but the hasp seemed to be more or less loose. Possibly Mr. Ironsides' efforts to escape had had that effect. At any rate, Tom thought that if only he could get the instrument with which to do it, he could pry up the hasp and free his friend.
But the question was, where to obtain that implement. While he was still casting about in his mind, a heavy footfall resounded, and, from round the corner of the pilot-house a figure emerged, making directly for the boy.