Let us return to the two desperate characters, to wit: Tom and Jo, whose malign efforts had started all this trouble. When we left them, they were in the steep ladder-way leading down into the forecastle. They stopped there for a minute, panting both with excitement and from the dash they had made. It was as dark as pitch below them, but they could hear the stentorian snore of Pete and the sturdy Irish lad, who did the most of the stoking.
“Give me some more matches, Jo,” whispered Tom.
“Don’t you laugh and give us away,” warned Jo.
Here they proceeded to rub the sulphur on their faces until their countenances took on a ghostly greenish-white hue. Then they crept down the steps into the dark forecastle.
“Who’s that?” cried Pete, who slept with one eye open after the manner of sailors.
The boys gave a deep groan and then Irish roused up. Pete was already wide awake, and aghast at what he saw, two greenish-white faces in the gloom and with audible groans too. At first he was paralyzed, then Irish broke the spell.
“Howly Saints!” he yelled, “it’s the devil!”
Then he sprang from his bunk yelling at every second, and made for the ladder. Pete wasted no breath in yells. He put it into action. When the boy gave his first yell the old sailor likewise jumped for the ladder; no matter if he did have to pass within a few inches of those ghostly ghosts, the fresh air for him.
It was a case of two minds with but a single thought, for old Pete and the boy met at the ladder and then there was a wild scramble. First Pete would start part way up and Irish would pull him down, then the boy would get up a ways and Pete would yank him deckward and the boy was yelling for help with every breath. It was a regular cat fight and Tom and Jo were weak from suppressed laughter, at the exhibition. It was funny in a way, but those laugh best who laugh last sometimes, as Jo and Tom were likely to find out.