To these noises Anstey paid scant heed. He was listening intently to a metallic sound, which told him that Preston's precautions had not been taken in vain. Somewhere in the for'ard part of the hold there was a regular metallic thud. It came from a mass of metal that had worked loose from the securing chains. Anstey's first intention was to order a couple of lascars below. "May as well do the jolly old job myself," he soliloquized, on second thoughts. Fumbling in his pocket he produced his electric torch. For some minutes he was dazzled by the blinding glare. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he could form a good idea of the difficulties of his surroundings. He was standing in a narrow fore-and-aft passage. The walls consisted of red-painted girders piled up to a height of ten feet on either side of him. Although secured by chains and upright steel bars they presented a formidable appearance, as alternately each wall towered obliquely over his head, the whole mass straining and groaning at its lashings like a Titan striving to burst his bonds. Staggering along the narrow passage, for the erratic movement of the hold was totally different from the heave and pitch to which Anstey was accustomed on deck, the Third Officer made his way cautiously forward, critically examining the metal gripes that secured the awkward cargo. Suddenly he stopped. A cold perspiration stood out on his forehead. Danger, imminent danger, stared him in the face. Danger not only to himself but to the ship and her passengers and crew. Three feet above his head a huge girder was chattering and quivering. The chain that secured it to its fellows had at one time been set up by a massive bottle screw. Possibly the thread was an easy one, but, in any case, the constant working of the ship had caused the bottle screw to "run back". It was now holding by a couple of threads at the most, and momentarily the securing chain might fly asunder. Anstey realized what that meant. The fifty-ton girder would crush and pulp him to a jelly. Not only that; it would to a certainty start the bottom plates of the hull and shatter the bulkheads of No. 1 hold as well. That meant that the _West Barbican_ would plunge like a stone to the bed of the Atlantic. Thrusting the barrel of his torch under the strap of his peaked cap, Anstey replaced the headgear, jamming it on so that the peak was over his right ear. That gave him a direct light to work with. Then, pulling out the marline-spike of his knife, and holding it between his teeth, Anstey began to scale the precarious wall of steel until he could tackle the almost disjointed bottle screw.