It was bracing advice. Martin pulled himself together and essayed the attempt.
Slowly he wormed his way upward until his middle balanced on the edge of the top tier. A quick writhe placed him atop. Then he bent back, and his manacled hands felt around till they encountered the cans.
It required repeated attempts ere he was able to draw one out of the box, for the cans were large, of gallon size, and his numbed arms were almost strengthless. But at last he plucked one out and canted it over the edge of the box. It struck the deck with a thud. He scrambled down from his perch, croaking excitedly—
"Got it—bos—got—one."
An instant later, he had kicked the can to the stanchion, and was squatted again by the boatswain's side.
The boatswain slid his arms down the post and felt of the treasure.
"Aye—ye got it!" he commented. "But 'ow'll we open the thing? Too big for me to get my 'ands around, or I'd twist it open—an' the way we're tied up we can't bash it against anything. Strike me a blushin' pink, what rotten luck. An' we fair perishin' with thirst!"
"Got—knife?" mumbled Martin.
"Knife! I ain't got my bloody clothes, let alone my knife! Caught me in my bunk, asleep, they did. And you needn't twist about looking for your sheath-knife, lad. I seen them take it from you, up there in the cabin. Swiggle me' we're stumped—but, you 'aven't a pocket-knife, 'ave you?"
"No," answered Martin.