Instead of following, O'Neil turned and went below. He found that
the water was knee-deep on the port side of the deck where his
animals were quartered, which showed that the ship had listed
heavily. He judged that she must be much deeper by the head then
he had imagined, and that her nose was crushed in among the
rocks. Until she settled at the stern, therefore, the case was
not quite hopeless.

His appearance, the sound of his voice, were the signals for a
chorus of eager whinnies and a great stamping of hoofs. Heads
were thrust toward him from the stalls, alert ears were pricked
forward, satin muzzles rubbed against him as he calmed their
terror. This blind trust made the man's throat tighten achingly.
He loved animals as he loved children, and above all he cared for
horses. He understood them, he spoke their language as nearly as
any human can be said to do so. Quivering muscles relaxed beneath
his soothing palm; he called them by name and they answered with
gentle twitching lips against his cheek. Some of them even began
to eat and switch their tails contentedly.

He cursed aloud and made his way down the sloping deck to the
square iron door, or port, through which he had loaded them. But
he found that it was jammed, or held fast by the pressure
outside, and after a few moments' work in water above his knees
he climbed to the starboard side. Here the entrance was
obstructed by a huge pile of baled hay and grain in sacks. It
would be no easy task to clear it away, and he fell to work with
desperate energy, for the ship was slowly changing her level. Her
stern, which had been riding high, was filling; the sea stole in
upon him silently. It crept up toward him until the horses,