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They remained below and, seizing their chance unobserved, slipped into the spare compartment on the lower deck in which the lumber was stowed. Just abaft this compartment was an ash-chute. As the sea was now calm, the ash-hoist had been at work that morning and the trap-door of the chute had not been relocked.
He waited, and his men, with their shovels and slice-bars and oil-cans they waited, every one of them, with one sharp eye to the nearest ash-hoist, which reminded the chief that he would never leave home again and this time he meant it without installing those four more ladders leading up from the engine and fire-room quarters to the decks. No, sir, he would not. But nothing happened!
A big swarthy-faced man who was standing near the ash-hoist was awaiting him. "Are you sober enough, Tim, not to make any mistakes?" asked Chard, leaning forward and looking eagerly into the man's face. "Just as sober as you are," was the reply, given with insolent familiarity. "I've kept my head pretty clear, as clear as yours and the skipper's, anyway."
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