He told them that he should climb up over the poop, and do so without exciting the attention of the hand at the helm, for it was possible, though doubtful, that the man set as sentry over them would be asleep. He had no reason to expect this, but it was probable, and he was going to try it. "Best let me go first, sir," said Tom Fillot. "You might be knocked over at once, and dropped into the sea." "If I am, you must haul me out again," said the lad, coolly. "There's a coil of signal or fishing line there, strong enough to hold me--there, in that locker. I shall make it fast round my waist, and if I get up in safety, I shall secure it to a belaying-pin, so that it will be handy for you who follow. Mind, as silently as cats. Get it out, and make it fast. Two of you can hold the end." There was a slight rustling sound as Tom obeyed; the line was declared to be quite new, and kept there in store; and at last, amidst the deep breathing of the excited men, Mark prepared to climb out, while his followers in this forlorn hope were eager and waiting for their turn. The recollection of the last attempt would trouble the lad, try as he would to be calm and firm. "I can do it in less than a minute," he said to himself; "but I wish that my heart would not beat quite so hard." But it would beat all the same, and at a tremendous rate, as he, in imagination, saw the sentry ready to strike him down. "Ready, sir?" whispered Tom. "Yes. Got the line?" "Right, sir; and we'll just keep touch of you, and pay it out. Moment you've made it fast." "If I do," whispered Mark. "You will, sir," said the man, confidently. "Give four jigs, and up we come. Got your dirk?" "Yes." "Draw it, sir; hold it in your teeth, to leave your hands free, and if any one comes at you use it. That thing can't kill." Mark drew a deep breath, thrust himself half out of the window, turned, and gazed up. All was perfectly silent--not a suggestion of an enemy above; and getting right out, the boy seized the carved ornamentation of the stern above the window, raised one foot, to find a resting-place on a kind of broad beading or streak, and began to climb. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. ON DECK AGAIN. Nothing of a climb up over the stern of that schooner, a trifle compared to the same task on the _Nautilus_; but it was hard work to Mark Vandean, who had to move by inches, getting well hold and drawing himself up till he was about to reach his hand over the top, when he felt one foot gliding from its support, and thought that he was gone. But a spasmodic clutch saved him, and after clinging there motionless and in a terribly constrained attitude for a time, he drew a long breath once more, reached up suddenly, got a secure hold, and then hung for a few moments before seeking about with his foot for a fresh resting-place.