CHAPTER XII.
NED’S TERRIBLE PLIGHT.
Time seemed to stand still and the world to poise on its poles as Ned shot through the narrow opening. A thunder boom sounded in his ears and his soul appeared to be flying from his mouth.
With quick instinct—it was no conscious effort of will,—he had spread his legs as he fell, turning his feet outward, as he had often done in the gymnasium when hanging from a bar. It was that swift movement, and that alone, that saved him from plunging straight down to the depths of the sea or striking the iron decks so far below him.
There he clung, head downward, sustained only by the grip of his feet on two steel posts. Every muscle of his body was strained to its utmost tension. His brain seemed bursting. With every heave and roll of the ship he was swung far out and then back again, with every likelihood that if his foothold was not broken his head would be dashed against a steel brace.
Below from the bridge came a horrified cry:—
“Great Scott, sir! Look at that!”
“It’s Gunner’s-Mate Strong!” groaned the Captain.
“Look, sir, the other man, Sharp, his name is, has seen his plight. He’s trying to haul him aboard.”
“Good heavens, they’ll both go! Man the mast there! Jump aloft! Look alive, men! Poor boy! Poor boy!”
Up the ladder sprang a red-headed youth. It was Herc, and behind him swarmed a half dozen Jackies who had seen the peril of their ship-mate.