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there, before he rose again, with more of caution this time. Feeling above him for the beam, he found that there were more of them, and he groped his way over the sacks, guiding himself with his hands above his head. Then the beam curved, banded itself to another, and changed from the horizontal to the vertical. In that moment, the realization came upon him, and he knew that he was in the hold of a ship. He had been pressed—as any common waterfront loafer is pressed; as any hoodlum seaman with a head too full of rum to know what the world about him was doing. The floor swayed, and he was thrown rudely to the sacks. There he lay, his head in his hands, wondering how it could be that in so short a space of time his world had come to an end. Was it not only a few hours past that he had caught hold of the stage, scarce out of sight of his inn, and climbed up to the jolting seat—was it not only a few hours? With his face in his hands, he crouched there.
    After a time, he became conscious of another sensation—hunger, and thirst. Though some of the bitterness had passed, his mouth was more dry than ever, and his tongue clove stickily to the roof of it. Gasping, he swallowed painfully and spat out the pasty saliva. How long, he wondered, would they keep him there?—had they forgotten him?—did any one upon the ship know that he was there? But they must know. Once or twice he shouted, and, again, he stamped upon the floor; but as that produced no apparent result, he lay in silence. Then he slept.
    He was awakened by something crawling across his face, something cold and muskish; he had a hand on it before it scampered away—a rat. His stomach welled up.
    Now, as before, the utter darkness held. There was not the faintest suggestion of light. The floor swayed; he was hungrier, thirstier. His lips were dry; his mouth was dry; longingly, he thought of a glass of cold water. He cried aloud; many times he yelled, until the thickness of his throat clogged up his words, sending them back in a meaningless jumble. Then he was silent, being too weary and disgusted to pound upon the floor or the ceiling. Everything was giving way to a sensation of anger and hate.
    Flexing his legs, flexing his arms, he ran his hands over his body, judging the strength and wideness of his muscles. From want of food and water, he was weak, and k was entirely possible that he would be weaker before they let him out of the place; but a time would come when he’d have his old strength, and then, what persons had put him in this hole would pay. Already he had decided that some day he would wring Mr. Kwalkee’s neck.
    A rat scampered across his leg.
    In the solid, tangible blackness, time passed slowly—no, maddeningly. An hour might have been a minute, but a minute might have drawn itself into a day. It seemed, indeed, that time did not pass at all, that he lay there in swarthy eternity, and suffered. For the first time, he knew what it was to have his tongue curl up in glue, to have his lips crack because there was not enough moisture in his mouth to wet them. When he attempted to speak, his voice cackled out in a falsetto. His long hair fell over, tangling itself in his face, but he had no desire to raise a hand and brush it away.
    Then, again, he slept. To John Preswick, it seemed that he had lain awake for all time, but at last he slept while the rats scampered across his body.
    When a broad shaft of light flashed down from above across his face, opening his eyes, he had scarce the strength to crawl to his feet. In the yellow light of day, he stood, swaying back and forth, blinded, but striving to see through the intensity of the flash. It settled itself, and he made out a hatch that had been opened above him, and the figures of two men, legs spread, standing upon either side of it, peering down at him.
    â€œOn your feet, eh? It’s a man that we have here!” one of them exclaimed.
    The other laughed. “It will