A sailor with a night-shirt was legitimate prey.
Whistling softly, the victim prepared himself for the swing, grasped the hooks, and then, with good momentum, landed in the hammock.

There was a swish, a distinct thud, and young Potter rolled out upon the deck with a gasp of amazement.

Turning as quickly as he could, he looked up and saw the hammock swinging in its proper place.

It was physical labor for us to keep from howling with glee at the expression on his face.

He glanced sheepishly about to see if his catastrophe had been observed; then he made another attempt.