They hung for a
moment on strained arms, with the breath knocked out of them, and with
closed eyes--then, letting go with one hand, balanced with lolling
heads, trying to grab some rope or stanchion further forward. The
long-armed and athletic boatswain swung quickly, gripping things with a
fist hard as iron, and remembering suddenly snatches of the last letter
from his "old woman." Little Belfast scrambled in a rage spluttering
"cursed nigger." Wamibo's tongue hung out with excitement; and Archie,
intrepid and calm, watched his chance to move with intelligent coolness.
When above the side of the house, they let go one after another, and
falling heavily, sprawled, pressing their palms to the smooth teak wood.
Round them the backwash of waves seethed white and hissing. All the
doors had become trap-doors, of course. The first was the galley door.
The galley extended from side to side, and they could hear the sea
splashing with hollow noises in there. The next door was that of the
carpenter's shop. They lifted it, and looked down. The room seemed to
have been devastated by an earthquake. Everything in it had tumbled on
the bulkhead facing the door, and on the other side of that bulkhead
there was Jimmy dead or alive.
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