Some sharp tool had dropped beside the hatch and had cut a straight, thin
line where it fell.
"Chisel done dat."
We were communicating in whispers now, and with a finger at his lips the
cook gave us a warning glance. He then laid hold of the rope that was made
fast to a shears overhead, swung out, and slid down to the very keelson.
Silently, one at a time, we followed. The only sound was our sibilant
breathing and the very faint shuffle of feet. Now we could see, almost
midway between the hatches, the dim light of a candle and a man at work.
While we watched, the man cautiously struck several blows. Was he scuttling
the ship? Then, as Roger and the cook tiptoed forward, I suddenly tripped
over a piece of plank and sprawled headlong.
As I fell, I saw Roger and the cook leap ahead, then the man doused the
light. There was a sound of scuffling, a crash, a splutter of angry words.
A moment later I heard the click of flint on steel, a tiny blaze sprang
from the tinder, and the candle again sent up its bright flame.
"Come, Ben, hold the light," Roger called. He and Frank had the man from
Boston down on the limber board and were holding him fast. The fight,
though fierce while it lasted, already was over.
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