“There’s somebody alive forrad!” cried one of the men.
I ran on deck.
“What is it?”
“This way, sir,” shouted Meehan.
I followed the fellow to the forecastle—that is to say, to the hatch by which the forecastle was entered and quitted.
“There’s somebody knocking,” cried Friend.
“Thump back and sing out,” I cried.
The man did so, and we heard a faint voice, feeble as a sweep’s call-down from the height of a tall chimney.
“Don’t you see what has happened?” cried I. “Why, look! This vessel has been in collision—struck some vessel on end. Her bowsprit has been run in by the blow, and the heel of it has closed the slide of the hatch over the people who are below here!”
I thumped and sang out. A voice dimly responded. I thumped again, and roared at the top of my lungs: