“He couldn’t have fallen overboard?” questioned Juarez. Jim negatived that idea emphatically.
“Tom’s too cautious for that,” he said.
Where was he? The reader knows well enough, being an adept on solving all these mysteries. He was in old Pete’s sea-chest hidden down under the clothes, and Pete, whose eyesight was not as good as it once was, had failed to see any sign of him. Now, when he heard Jim and the rest go on deck, he decided that it was time to get out of his uncomfortable prison, which was much too cramped.
What was his dismay to find that he was indeed a prisoner, for when old Pete had shut down the top of the chest it had fastened shut. Tom began to feel stifled for air, partly imagination on his part, and partly fact. It was true that some air could get in, through where the rope handles went, but not much. Tom struggled till he got his hand in his pocket, hoping to find his knife with which he would cut the rope handles and push the pieces through the holes and thus get enough air to sustain life, but as luck would have it, his knife was not there.
He began to pant now, and gasp and think of all the horrible tales he had ever read of people being buried alive and of similar tragedies, until he was almost hysterical. He yelled for help, but his voice was muffled, and besides there was none to hear. He tried to attract attention by beating with his hands against the top of the chest.
After what seemed an interminable time, the half-fainting Tom heard feet clattering down the steep ladder into the forecastle, and this brought him partially to.
“Jim, get me out,” he cried, and his voice came feebly to the ears of the searchers.
“I heard Tom,” cried Juarez.
