Panic, rage, despair, shook Martin. In excess of misery, he groaned aloud, a smothered sob of anguish.

"Martin, lad! 'Ave you come around? You're sittin' up. Ow, swiggle me, lad, pipe up!"

The words came from the huddled figure behind the stanchion, in a husky beseeching rumble. The shadowy figure stirred, and Martin heard the sharp clink of steel striking against steel.

The words and the sound pierced his dread, and brought his thoughts back to the boatswain. He tried a second time to answer the other's hail, and managed to articulate in a hoa.r.s.e mumble. The words tore barbed through his sore throat, and were hardly managed by his dry, swollen tongue.

"All right--bos--dry--come."

He got upon his knees and peered into the darkness about him. He was in a narrow pa.s.sageway between two rows of ship's stores that fan fore and after the length of the lazaret. He was facing forward. Just behind him, on his right hand, a ladder ran up to the cabin overhead, but the trapdoor in the cabin floor was closed.

His scrutiny was aided as much by memory as by eyesight, for he had several times been in this chamber, breaking out stores. The pa.s.sage he sat in, he knew, ran forward to the row of beef casks which ab.u.t.ted against the forward bulkhead. Midway was an intersecting, thwart-ship alleyway between the stores. At this point of intersection was the stanchion, behind which was the boatswain, a hulking black blot in the surrounding gloom.

He hunched himself along upon his knees, and reached the stanchion.

"Drink--dry--water," he gabbled painfully.

"Marty--Marty, lad, I'm glad you're 'ere!" came the heartfelt whisper from the boatswain. "I feared 'e 'ad choked the life out o' ye. Dry, ye say? So am I, lad. Cussed so much I can't spit--an' my back's bloomin' well busted from bending over 'ugging this stanchion!"

Martin, leaning against a tier of boxes, was able to see the boatswain more clearly. He could not make out the other's features plainly, but he almost rubbed against an arm and leg, and he saw that the big man was in his underwear. The boatswain was seated on the floor, and his arms and legs encircled the stanchion.

"I'd 'a' come to you, Marty, but the blighters 'ave me ironed, ironed 'and an' foot around this b.l.o.o.d.y stanchion! Ow, but it's a black business, lad! But can ye stand, Martin? 'Ave they ironed you, too?"

Martin desperately endeavored to swallow the dry lump in his throat.

"Behind back--hand," he managed to gulp out. "Throat bad--can't talk--dry----"

"Be'ind your back!" broke in the boatswain. "Ow ---- blast the cruel devils! Be'ind your back--ironed be'ind your back! An' you lyin' on your arms these hours! That's cruel 'ard--'arder than me 'ugging this ruddy post. Throat bad? I know--I seen them giving you the squeeze.

Ju-jitsu--swiggle me if it wasn't! But can ye stand, Martin? 'Ave you the use o' your legs? Because, them boxes you're leanin' against are canned goods, tomatoes an' such, and----"

But Martin heard no more. He had struggled to his feet, and begun to investigate. For the boatswain's remark concerning canned goods had brought two memories to his mind. One memory went back to the old, half-forgotten days of his clerkhood in San Francisco. In those days he had occasionally gone on Sunday hikes over the Marin hills, in company with Fatty Jones, who worked in a neighboring office. And Fatty Jones, he recalled, always carried with him, in preference to a canteen, two cans of tomatoes for drinking purposes.

The second memory went back but a week. He, and the two Kanakas of his watch, had been sent below to break out a fresh cask of beef. As they struggled with the heavy burden in this very pa.s.sageway, one of the Kanakas had knocked from its position on top of a pile, a box of tomatoes. The fall broke open the box. They had tossed it back into place, unrepaired. Unless some one had subsequently renailed the cover on that box, it was open to him, somewhere along the top tier.

A vision of himself quaffing deeply of the cool, wet contents of those cans, filled Martin's mind to the exclusion of aught else.

The row of boxes was about breast-high. Unable to use his hands, Martin leaned over and explored with his chin. The fourth box rewarded him. He broke his skin upon a bared nail, and, craning further, rubbed his jawbone over the cold, smooth, round tops of cans.

He crooned with delight. Then followed despair as he discovered that he was unable, without the use of his hands, to either move the box or extract a can.

The boatswain, following his progress with eye and ear, counseled him:

"Turn around, an' bend over, an' reach up backwards. No? Well, try and get on top o' the pile, and flop over."

It was bracing advice. Martin pulled himself together and essayed the attempt.

Slowly he wormed his way upward until his middle balanced on the edge of the top tier. A quick writhe placed him atop. Then he bent back, and his manacled hands felt around till they encountered the cans.

It required repeated attempts ere he was able to draw one out of the box, for the cans were large, of gallon size, and his numbed arms were almost strengthless. But at last he plucked one out and canted it over the edge of the box. It struck the deck with a thud. He scrambled down from his perch, croaking excitedly--

"Got it--bos--got--one."

An instant later, he had kicked the can to the stanchion, and was squatted again by the boatswain's side.

The boatswain slid his arms down the post and felt of the treasure.

"Aye--ye got it!" he commented. "But 'ow'll we open the thing? Too big for me to get my 'ands around, or I'd twist it open--an' the way we're tied up we can't bash it against anything. Strike me a blushin'

pink, what rotten luck. An' we fair perishin' with thirst!"

"Got--knife?" mumbled Martin.

"Knife! I ain't got my b.l.o.o.d.y clothes, let alone my knife! Caught me in my bunk, asleep, they did. And you needn't twist about looking for your sheath-knife, lad. I seen them take it from you, up there in the cabin. Swiggle me' we're stumped--but, you 'aven't a pocket-knife, 'ave you?"

"No," answered Martin.

His spirits were at zero, with the diminishing prospect of tasting those wet tomatoes. His raging thirst, whetted by expectation, a.s.sailed him with added force; he was actually dizzy with l.u.s.t of drink.

"Blimme! 'Aven't you anything in your pockets what's sharp?" asked the boatswain. "Ow, what tough luck!"

Martin suddenly remembered something.

"Got--keys," he croaked. "Bunch--keys."

"Keys!" echoed the other. "Bless me that's better. May work it. Can you reach them--what pocket? Side? 'Ere--lean closer to me, an' I'll get 'em out. Keys! Ow--any of them sharp pointed? Any Yales?"

Two of the boatswain's clublike fingers worked their way into Martin's trousers pocket.

"Don't know--not--mine," Martin answered the questioning. "Keys belong--Little Billy--gave----"

The boatswain's fingers stopped prodding for a second. The man tensed, drew in a sharp breath, and then exploded an oath.

"What! Billy's keys? G.o.d 'elp us lad, did ye say you 'ad Little Billy's keys?"

The fingers dove into the pocket with redoubled energy, grasped the keys, and drew them out. And then the boatswain pawed them over for a moment.

"Ow, strike me, 'e spoke right!" he muttered exultingly. "Billy's keys--the steward's ring! Oh ho! An' may the devil swiggle me bleedin' well stiff, if 'ere ain't the wery key! By 'Eaven, I'll 'ave my bare 'ands on that bloke yet! Ow--what luck!"

"What--" commenced the astonished Martin.

"What!" echoed the boatswain. "Ere--you just stand around, and let me get at them bracelets. I'll show ye what! Ow--where's the b.l.o.o.d.y 'ole! Ah-h!"

There was a tiny click--and Martin felt his steel bonds being drawn from his wrists. His nerveless arms fell to his sides.

The boatswain explained the miracle.

"Little Billy's keys--'ow'd you 'appen--don't ye see, lad? There's a duplicate key to these irons on Billy's key-ring. Old man 'as the other key--or 'ad, suppose Carew 'as it now. It fits all the irons.

'Ere, turn me loose now. This little key!"