THE MOUTH CLOSES.
When the hatch was closed, and Matt had shut himself into the hull of the boat, he found that he was in cramped quarters.
The air was stifling, and the smell of bilge water was extremely unpleasant. He could not sit up without knocking his head against the deck beams, and he was entangled in a scattered pile of firewood. But if he got where he wanted to go he must contrive to move forward.
Taking a match from his pocket, he struck it on his trousers, and looked about him in the feeble gleam.
The firewood was not all he had to contend with. In addition to that, the hold was half full of boxes and casks.
Making mental note of a course that would take him forward with least trouble from the fuel and food supplies, he pinched out the match and crawled carefully.
He realized, presently, that the voices from the cabin were coming to his ears in increased volume; in fact, he was hearing them much more distinctly than when he had been at the window outside the cabin. Their distinctness became much more apparent the farther he advanced; not only that, but they served to help him locate himself. When the voices were directly over his head he paused.
The floor boards of the deck had spread slightly, and the cracks were lined with threads of lamplight. This explained the distinctness with which the voices reached his ears. Sitting up, he stifled his breathing while he listened.
"You fellers might just as well understand this from the start off—that money stays together, all in a wad, until we get safe out o' 'Frisco. Then there'll be a divvy, and not before."
Red-whiskers was the speaker. Matt had no difficulty in recognizing his raucous voice.