reward of the wolf for
using his long neck and bill as a forceps in extracting a bone from
the latter's oesophagus, Lupus suggests that for the crane to have had
his head down in the lupine throat and _not_ get it snapped off
was reward enough for any reasonable fowl. The petty officer was
sufficiently learned in the Lyceum to administer a like return. The
stipulated salvage was never paid or offered.[A]

[Footnote A: It was a warrant-officer of the Milwaukee: I do not wish
to be more definite; but the money (fifty dollars) may be sent to the
editor of this Magazine, who will forward it to the diver.]

The monitors had small square hatches or man-ports let into the deck,
admitting one person conveniently.

Hinc via, Tartanii quae fert Acherontis ad undas.

A swinging ladder, whose foot was clear of the floor, led down
into the recesses. A diver, having completed his task, ascended the
treacherous staircase to escape, and found the hatch blocked up.
A floating chest or box had drifted into the opening, and, fitting
closely, had firmly corked the man up in that dungeon, tight as a fly
in a bottle. From his doubtful perch on the ladder he endeavored to
push the obstacle from its insertion. Two or more equal difficulties
made this impossible. The box had no handle, and it was slippery with
the ooze and mucus of the sea. The leverage of pushing only wedged
it faster in the orifice. The inconstant ladder swayed from it as
a fulcrum. Again and again by art and endeavor and angle of push he
essayed, and the ladder made sport of it. It was deadly sport, that
swing and seesaw on the slippery rungs in the immeasurable loneliness
of the silent, shrouded cabin. It was no rush of air, sending life
tingling in the blood made brilliant with carmine of oxidation, but
the dense, mephitic sough of the thick wool of water. He descended
and sat upon the floor to think. Feasible methods had failed, and the
sands of his life were running out like the old physician's. Now to
try the impracticable. There are heaps of wisdom in the wrong way
sometimes, which, I suppose, is the reason some of us like it. The
box was out of his reach, choked in the gullet of that life-hole. No
spring or leap from floor or ladder could reach its slippery side
or bear it from its fixture. The sea had caught him prowling in its
mysteries, and blocked him up, as cruel lords of ancient days walled
up the intruder on their domestic privacy. Wit after brute force: