The bench, a half-finished meat-safe,
saws, chisels, wire rods, axes, crowbars, lay in a heap besprinkled
with loose nails. A sharp adze stuck up with a shining edge that
gleamed dangerously down there like a wicked smile. The men clung to one
another, peering. A sickening, sly lurch of the ship nearly sent them
overboard in a body. Belfast howled "Here goes!" and leaped down. Archie
followed cannily, catching at shelves that gave way with him, and eased
himself in a great crash of ripped wood. There was hardly room for
three men to move. And in the sunshiny blue square of the door, the
boatswain's face, bearded and dark, Wamibo's face, wild and pale, hung
over--watching.
Together they shouted: "Jimmy! Jim!" From above the boatswain
contributed a deep growl: "You. Wait!" In a pause, Belfast entreated:
"Jimmy, darlin', are ye aloive?" The boatswain said: "Again! All
together, boys!" All yelled excitedly. Wamibo made noises resembling
loud barks. Belfast drummed on the side of the bulkhead with a piece of
iron. All ceased suddenly. The sound of screaming and hammering went
on thin and distinct--like a solo after a chorus.
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