Part 8 (2/2)
THE FIGHT FOR LIFE.
”Yes! Yes! What is it?” Somebody had spoken in the black darkness, but it was some minutes before Dallas Adams could realise the fact that the words came from his own lips.
Then he heard a faint whisper from somewhere close by, and he was this time wide awake, and knew that he was answering that whisper.
”Where am I? What place is this?”
The question had come to him in his sleep, and for a few moments, so familiar were the sounds, he felt that he must have the tubes of a phonograph to his ears, and he listening to the thin, weird, wiry tones of his cousin's voice.
Then, like a flash, all came back, and he knew not only that he had been asleep, but everything that had happened some time before.
”Bel, old lad,” he said huskily, and he winced with pain as he tried to stretch out his left hand.
”Ah!” came again in the faint whisper, ”That you, Dal?”
”Yes, yes. How are you now?”
”Then it isn't all a delirious dream?”
”No, no; we have been brought together almost miraculously.”
”Thank G.o.d--thank G.o.d!” came feebly. ”I thought I had been off my head.
Have I been asleep?”
”Yes, and I fell asleep too. My wound made me feverish, and we must have been lying here ever so long in the dark.”
”Your wound, Dal?”
”Yes; I had almost forgotten it in what we had to go through, but one of the scoundrels shot me. It is only a scratch, but my arm seems set fast.”
”Ah! Do you think they were buried alive too?” came in an eager whisper.
”Who can say, old fellow? But never mind that. How do you feel? Think you can help me?”
”Tie up your wound?”
”No, no. Help me try and dig our way out.”
”I think so. My head feels a bit light, but it's my throat that is bad--all swollen up so that I can only whisper.”
”Never mind your throat so long as you can use your arms.”
”Think we can dig our way out?”
Dallas uttered a little laugh.
”Why not?” he said. ”There is a pick and shovel on my sledge.”
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