"Stop that coal a minute. There's a boy down in here."
The man, or rather youth, who had shouted this, swung himself down into the bunker the next instant, and despite the grime on his face, Tom recognized an old acquaintance.
"Jeff Trulliber!" he gasped.
The son of the chief of the Sawmill Valley gang of counterfeiters was equally astonished.
"Why, it's Master Dacre!" he exclaimed, starting back in astonishment.
"That's who it is," rejoined Tom, with a rueful grin. "I want you to help me, Jeff. But first tell me if any of the crew of this craft are about."
"Not one of them. The skipper and two other chaps, who seemed to be his cronies, went ashore some time ago, and, as soon as they were gone, the crew left, too. I guess they are all carousing. But what under the sun——"
"Never mind questions now, Jeff. I want you to set me loose. See if there is a cold chisel and hammer in the engine room, and you can soon get this unornamental jewelry off me."
"I'll do that," responded Jeff eagerly.
Tom indicated the door leading from the bunker into the engine room, and Jeff, after rummaging about in there a while, located the required implements. In a very few minutes, for the irons that confined his limbs were old and rusty, Tom was free.