ed with the heavy burden in this very passageway, 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 bloody 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 'a