HE BEGAN TO TURN THE LOCKING DEVICE, SLOWLY AND FIRMLY
At first he was seized with the terrifying idea that the threads were not gripping. With the torch in his cap throwing its rays erratically with every movement of his head, Anstey felt convinced that his efforts were in vain.
He went on turning and turning, barking his knuckles as the tapering spike slipped again and again. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he saw that the ends of the threaded bolts had reappeared.
Even as he looked, the torch slipped from his cap and clattered to the metal floor. The hold was plunged into darkness.
His first impulse was to make for the open air. In the darkness the difficulties of working in the place were redoubled. It required a determined effort to force himself to his incompleted task.
Solely by sense of touch he carried on, until he had the joy of feeling the reunited ends of the threaded bars. That part of the business was finished until next time, he decided.
Regaining the floor, he felt his way between the piled-up girders until his hand came in contact with the ladder. Twenty-five feet above his head he could see a rectangular patch of light, one edge broken by the heads and shoulders of half a dozen lascars.
Up the ladder Anstey swarmed, drinking in copious draughts of the pure, salt-laden air.
But his task was incomplete. He must make sure that everything in No. 1 hold was secure.