Harvey, the sailor who has volunteered to help him, keeps shining his flashlight into Shaftoe’s eyes. It is unavoidable; Shaftoe is wedged into a surpassingly awkward position beneath the safe, working with the charges, trying to set the primers with slimy fingers drained of warmth and strength. This would not even be possible if the boat hadn’t been torpedoed; before, this cabin was half full of sewage and the safe was immersed in it. Now it has been conveniently drained.