Something touched me. I woke up. Dobson was bending over me. "There’s summat going on for’ard, sir. I don’t like the sound of it. I’ve been for’ard under the foot of that ’ere sail twice in the past ’arf-’our, and those noises leave off. I find them Arabs a-lying there as quiet as mice in a nest, and I don’t understand it." I rubbed my eyes, sat up, and rose to my feet—very stiff I was. The sea was absolutely calm now; the moonlight flooded our decks. Every seam and knot in the planks was distinct; every stitch and ragged tear showed out clearly in the drooping sail, whose shadow swallowed up the whole of the bows. "Listen, sir!" Dobson whispered, pointing for’ard. I heard a soft rasping sound, as if pieces of rough wood were being drawn across each another. I crept for’ard close to the gunwale, and had not taken two paces before the noise ceased. Dobson joined me. "It always leaves off directly I start to go for’ard, sir." "Come along," I said, and we both walked along the deck, and, lifting the foot of the sail, peered underneath. When our eyes were accustomed to the darkness we could see the figures of Arabs huddled up close together on top of the fore hatch. We waited for several minutes, but no one stirred. We crept back again. "Where’s Wiggins?" I asked, and Dobson pointed under the poop. "He felt so bad with his ribs, sir, that I told him to go and lie down." "See if the nakhoda is under there," I told him, and he crept in. He came back again, white in the face. "’E’s not there, sir." I crawled under myself, crawled all over the beastly place. He certainly was not there. "I never saw ’im go, sir!" Dobson whispered apologetically. However, he was gone; there could be no doubt about that. He was certain to have crept for’ard among his men, and it was as certain that mischief would be brewing. "We’ll turn ’em out and see what it is," I said, pulling my revolver from its holster and opening the breech to see that it was loaded. We went for’ard again, and as we bent down under the sail, our revolvers in our hands, there was a rush of bare feet and the whole crowd of them leapt at us. Three or four were clinging to me, throttling me round the neck, clutching my arms to my sides, and pulling my legs from under me. In spite of all my struggles I was thrown to the deck on my face; someone bent back my wrist to wrench the revolver away, but before it was dragged out of my hand I managed to get my finger on the trigger and pulled it. As my head whirled with the choking of those iron fingers round my throat I did not know whether I had actually fired it or not. I was banged on the deck, twisted round and round under a heap of grunting Arabs; something was forced into my mouth; I nearly lost consciousness, but when the grasp on my throat was relaxed I managed to draw a breath of air and found myself next to Dobson, both of us lashed up like mummies, lying on our backs on some coils of rope.