It seemed an eternity climbing that five or six feet. To his agitated mind it seemed as if the girders were already slipping bodily upon him. As his toes sought an insecure hold he could feel the steelwork trembling. With each lurch of the vessel to starboard the bottle screw strained, until the young officer felt certain that the last two threads had stripped and the last restraining bonds had been loosed. At last he found himself in a position to tackle his task. With one foot resting on a girder on one side of the passage, and the other on the opposite side, and steadying himself as best he could with his left hand, Anstey inserted the point of the marline-spike in the slot of the bottle screw. Then he began to turn the locking device, slowly and firmly. [Illustration: HE BEGAN TO TURN THE LOCKING DEVICE, SLOWLY AND FIRMLY] At first he was seized with the terrifying idea that the threads were not gripping. With the torch in his cap throwing its rays erratically with every movement of his head, Anstey felt convinced that his efforts were in vain. He went on turning and turning, barking his knuckles as the tapering spike slipped again and again. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he saw that the ends of the threaded bolts had reappeared. Even as he looked, the torch slipped from his cap and clattered to the metal floor. The hold was plunged into darkness. His first impulse was to make for the open air. In the darkness the difficulties of working in the place were redoubled. It required a determined effort to force himself to his incompleted task. Solely by sense of touch he carried on, until he had the joy of feeling the reunited ends of the threaded bars. That part of the business was finished until next time, he decided. Regaining the floor, he felt his way between the piled-up girders until his hand came in contact with the ladder. Twenty-five feet above his head he could see a rectangular patch of light, one edge broken by the heads and shoulders of half a dozen lascars. Up the ladder Anstey swarmed, drinking in copious draughts of the pure, salt-laden air. But his task was incomplete. He must make sure that everything in No. 1 hold was secure. "Thatcher, old son," he exclaimed, as he encountered one of the junior engineers. "Lend me your torch, there's a good sort. I've scuppered mine." Thatcher fumbled in the pocket of his dungarees. "Here you are, you careless blighter," he replied. "Skylarking, I suppose? Well, take care of my gadget, anyway." Again Anstey descended the hold and completed his survey. The clang of shifting steel had ceased. When, after an hour's absence, he regained the bridge, Preston was not to be seen, but the skipper spotted the dishevelled youth and sung out to him. "Well?" queried the Old Man. "All correct, sir," reported Anstey. "The----" "Good," rejoined the Captain, without waiting for the Third's explanation. "Carry on."