A sudden shout from the decks attracted Herc’s attention at this moment. He rushed to the edge of the top and beheld the most amazing specimen of grit in the face of overwhelming odds that he had ever witnessed.
The stay which Ned had caught stretched between the fore and the after masts. From it were suspended the signal halliards, the nether end of which ropes were on the bridge. Hand over hand, and painfully slowly, Ned was working himself along this stay. He appeared to have lost his presence of mind for the time being, for, instead of coming back to the after mast, he began working his way forward.
“Come back! Come back!” yelled Herc frenziedly.
“The other way! The other!” shouted officers and men, but Ned appeared not to hear them.
“Oh, he’ll never make it!” groaned Captain Dunham. “Poor lad! Poor lad!”
And now began a spectacle that none of those who beheld it ever forgot. It was photographed indelibly on the minds of every witness, officer and enlisted man.
It was seen that, provided Ned could hold on long enough, his progress must bring him above the funnels, belching hot, suffocating gases and blinding, cinder-laden smoke. Captain Dunham sent a man below to order the fires smothered instantly so as to minimize the amount of vapor issuing from the funnels.
“I don’t believe that the lad has one chance in a thousand,” he said with an unaccustomed quaver in his voice, “but we’ll leave nothing undone to help him out.”
“That’s just the trouble, sir,” rejoined the navigating officer, “there’s so little we can do. It’s almost unbearable to have to stand here helplessly and watch that brave struggle.”
Discipline for the time being was entirely forgotten. The sailors crowded on the fore-decks, oblivious to showers of spray and water, and shouted encouragement at the tops of their voices.