CHAPTER XXIII.
BRAINS AND GRIT—A COMBINATION HARD TO BEAT.
Tom's heart beat like a trip-hammer. Discovery and failure of his enterprise seemed almost inevitable. But he retained presence of mind enough to slip behind the big steam windlass while the man advanced.
The fellow was one of those left to guard the tug, and was more vigilant than Tom had supposed would be the case, judging by the conversation he had overheard. He had come forward to see that all was well.
Apparently he had not seen Tom, thanks to the darkness and the fact that he had just emerged from a lighted cabin. He walked up to the scuttle, however, and rapped on it with his knuckles in much the same way that Tom had done.
The boy's blood almost froze in his veins, as, in response to the man's rappings, he heard Mr. Ironsides' voice come from below.
"Hurry up, Tom. Get me out of here, quick! I can't stand it much longer."
"Gee whiz, the poor chap's gone crazy," muttered the man, to Tom's intense relief. "Well, I've no orders, except to keep him in there, crazy or not, so I'll just see that the fastenings are all right, and then go back to the game."
He drew a hatchet from his belt, and gave the nails that held the loose hasp a few blows with it. As he was doing this, clumsily enough in the darkness, he hit his thumb a hard blow. Tom heard an exclamation and a volley of strong language.
"Confound it," exclaimed the man, flinging the hatchet from him in a rage, "that's the second time in a week I pounded that thumb. Bad luck to it."