Sandy guessed as much, when he got no reply. The realization of Jack's condition acted as a tonic to him. Summoning up every one of his dormant faculties, the lad resolved on a last effort.
Reckless of the consequences, if there were any trap-doors or holes in the floors of the hold, he plunged forward into the velvety darkness. He could hear the patter-patter of myriads of tiny rat feet as he did so, but the Scotch lad was long past caring for that. The fighting instinct of a race of fighting ancestors was fully aroused in him. He felt that it would have taken half a dozen men to stop him.
Bump! Without warning, Sandy had suddenly blundered up against what seemed to be a solid wall.
"Well, here's something, at any rate," he mused to himself. "Now, if I can only find a door in it, I'll fling myself against it and make such a racket that they'll be bound to come down, unless they are made of steel and iron instead of flesh and blood."
Then began what seemed an eternity of groping. Raising his handcuffed wrists, Sandy felt for a chink in the smooth bulkhead. Quite as suddenly as he had collided with the wall, his fingers encountered a crack.
"Eureka!" exclaimed the boy. "I guess this is what I want."
As well as he could judge, after a brief examination, the crack extended clear to the floor of the hold.
"It must be a door," thought Sandy. And then:
"Now for it," he murmured.
With a blood-curdling yell, he flung his form against the bulkhead.