The sea was absolutely calm now; the moonlight flooded our decks. Every
seam and knot in the planks was distinct; every stitch and ragged tear
showed out clearly in the drooping sail, whose shadow swallowed up the
whole of the bows.
"Listen, sir!" Dobson whispered, pointing for'ard.
I heard a soft rasping sound, as if pieces of rough wood were being
drawn across each another. I crept for'ard close to the gunwale, and
had not taken two paces before the noise ceased.
Dobson joined me. "It always leaves off directly I start to go for'ard,
sir."
"Come along," I said, and we both walked along the deck, and, lifting
the foot of the sail, peered underneath. When our eyes were accustomed
to the darkness we could see the figures of Arabs huddled up close
together on top of the fore hatch. We waited for several minutes, but
no one stirred.
We crept back again.
"Where's Wiggins?" I asked, and Dobson pointed under the poop. "He felt
so bad with his ribs, sir, that I told him to go and lie down."
"See if the nakhoda is under there," I told him, and he crept in.