The midshipman knew how to use an axe. It was one of the many useful things he had been made to learn in the workshops at Dartmouth. Even in the darkness he struck hard and true, bringing each stroke of the blade obliquely to the preceding one. Splinters flew, and the hitherto noxious air now reeked of the oily and pleasant scent of freshly cut teak.
“Through!” he exclaimed, breathless but triumphant.
A gleam of pale green light streamed through the jagged gap.
Looking through the aperture Raxworthy saw a strange sight. It was akin to being in a cave and looking towards the entrance, with water instead of solid rock for a floor.
Actually the roof consisted of about twenty feet of deck that terminated in a jumble of rent and riven planks. Between this edge and the level of the water was a height of from two to four feet—it was constantly varying as the wreckage rose and fell on the long sullen swell of the sea.
Owing to the dip of the wreckage the depth of water nearest the bulkhead was only a few inches, but increased for’ard until it was over six feet.
“We’ve ample margin,” declared the midshipman, preparing to renew the attack.
“Let me give you a spell,” suggested his companion.
“Can you?”
The doctor laughed—the first time he had laughed since the capture of the Ah-Foo. It was a good sign, anyway.