“Oh, if you want to wait and take in the show do so by all means,” chuckled Clif. “The officer of the deck will be glad to oblige you with a box.”
“Yes,” added Joy, “a box ’tween decks, some time called the ‘brig,’ or ship’s prison.”
“I guess I don’t care to be a spectator,” admitted Toggles, with a grin. “The price is too high.”
The five lads carried their burden through the door to the ladder. The steerage was unlighted save by a single lamp behind the swinging hammocks. Heavy breathing and an occasional snore indicated that nothing need be anticipated from the junior officers.
“Up now,” whispered Clif. “Slowly and carefully. Steady; that’s it. Now lower him to the step.”
While he was getting his knife in readiness, the other plebes silently retreated and vanished into the gloom of the gun deck.
Clif placed his left hand under Crane’s body, braced himself for a brisk shove, then he slashed away with the knife.
There was a ripping noise as the ropes parted, a sudden clatter of the cups and pots, then, as Clif started to slip away, Crane threw both arms about his neck and the two rolled over upon the quarter-deck at the feet of the officer of the watch, amid a terrific din!
Clif had ever been a lad of quick resources, and of cool-headedness in times of emergency. His mind, intelligent and apt, worked rapidly and he was seldom at a loss for action. But in the present instant his surprise and stupefaction was so great that he could only stare from Crane to the officer of the watch, and back to Crane again.