Jo did not stop to ask why. Down the ladder he went while Ann tried to press more firmly against the hull of the ship, so that no sound of a ladder bumping against the planks of the side could be noticed by the men. It was only now that Ann realized that the storm had come at last. The rain was pouring in torrents and she was wet through.
Jo came back with several small rough branches from the hedge beside the road where they kept the ladder hidden. Taking one branch from him Ann reached out as far as possible along the side of the wreck and rubbed it harshly against the boards. She tried to make it sound like the weird haunting shuffle, a noise that there was no danger of her forgetting as long as she lived.
Sussh—she rubbed the branch away to the length of her arm and the wet leaves on the little twigs added to the effect that she hoped to give. Sussh, she went, making it hard and scraping, then sussh, she pulled it back with a slight rasp.
She was afraid to peek into the porthole, for surely the men would be looking in the direction from which the noise came. But she could hear what they said.
Charlie gave a squeal of fright. “There it is!” he cried.
“That devil figurehead!”
“The captain’s sent him after us!” Charlie’s voice rose in a shrill yelp.
It was impossible to hold her hand steady, but she kept on with scrape after scrape as rhythmic as that dread sound she had heard on the first day they visited the ship.
“Put the table against the door, Charlie,” ordered Tom.
“You can’t keep him out with that,” Charlie shouted. “That table would have been just kindling wood to Cap’n Jim and it won’t be even that much to the figurehead. I’m going!”