in his cabin, the owner of the ship.

One explanation came to me, and I leaped at it--the possibility of
a stowaway hidden in the hold, some maniacal fugitive who had found
in the little cargo boat's empty hull ample room to hide. The men,
too, seized at the idea. One and all volunteered for what might prove
to be a dangerous service.

I chose Charlie Jones and Clarke as being most familiar with the ship,
and we went down into the hold. Clarke carried a lantern. Charlie
Jones held Singleton's broken revolver. I carried a belaying pin.
But, although we searched every foot of space, we found nothing. The
formaldehyde with which Turner had fumigated the ship clung here
tenaciously, and, mixed with the odors of bilge water and the
indescribable heavy smells left by tropical cargoes, made me dizzy
and ill.

We were stumbling along, Clarke with the lantern, I next, and Charlie
Jones behind, on our way to the ladder again, when I received a
stunning blow on the back of the head. I turned dizzy, expecting
nothing less than sudden death, when it developed that Jones, having
stumbled over a loose plank, had fallen forward, the revolver in his
outstretched hand striking my head.

He picked himself up sheepishly, and we went on. But so unnerved
was I by this fresh shock that it was a moment or two before I could
essay the ladder.

Burns was waiting at the hatchway, peering down. Beside him on the
deck lay a bloodstained axe.