The next instant he was lying flat on his face.
The door against which he had flung himself had opened smoothly and noiselessly, and the strenuous force of Sandy's shove had carried him, with a crash, into what seemed to be a cabin.
For a few seconds he was past caring what the place was. He just lay there in the light, pumping his lungs full of blessed fresh air.
"Phew! If my lungs aren't saying 'thank you, kind master,' this very instant, they're an ungrateful pair of organs," said the whimsical Scotch lad, half aloud.
The cabin was empty and sparsely furnished. But on deck could be heard the trampling of feet. Sunshine streamed through the skylight above, and Sandy judged it must be very early morning. They had lain in the stifling heat of that black hole for an afternoon and a night then.
After a few minutes, Sandy struggled to his feet and looked about him. The fresh air had hugely strengthened and revived him. He felt a new courage coursing through his veins.
In the center of the cabin was a swinging table, bearing the remains of a rough meal. But never had food looked so good to the boy as did those remnants of corned beef and cabbage, and some sort of soggy pudding, and—a most welcome sight of all—a big glass pitcher full of sparkling, clear water.
Sandy determined to free Jack somehow, and then, together, they would enjoy a long drink and something of a meal, come what might. But how to accomplish this? That was the problem.
All at once, from the hold behind him, came a cry.
"It's Jack! The fresh air must have revived him. Thank goodness for that," breathed Sandy fervently. Then uttering a loud "Hush," he made his way back into the hold.