Part 81 (2/2)

”Too high? Of course. If we're above sea-level now, it won't reach us.”

”No, sir. You see the mouth of the mine's quite two hundred feet above sea-level, the workings are all below.”

”Then we may escape yet?”

”Escape, sir?” said Hardock, despairingly. ”How?”

”Grip has gone up to gra.s.s.”

”Ay, perhaps he has escaped,” said Hardock, dismally.

”And if he has, do you think he will not bring us help? Why, it may come any time.”

”Yes, to the hole he got out of; and it'll take five years to dig down through the solid rock to get us out. Nay, Master Gwyn, you may give it up. We're as good as dead.”

A faint sound, half groan, half cry, arrested them; and Gwyn hurried to the crack up which Joe Jollivet had crawled.

”What is it? Can you get by?”

”No, no,” came back faintly, the words being half drowned by the noise of the wind; ”stuck fast.”

”Oh, why did he grow so long and awkward!” muttered Gwyn. ”Here, Joe, turn round a bit and try and come back on your side.”

”Been trying hard, and I can't come back.”

Gwyn's heart sank, and he hesitated for a few moments, till the piteous word ”Help!” reached his ears, when he crept into the hole, leaving his lanthorn burning outside, sheltered from the current of air which rushed to the outlet, and began to crawl up as fast as he could.

”Help!” came again.

”Coming. You must turn.”

”Can't, I tell you. Oh, Ydoll, old fellow, it's all over now I--ah!”

Then there was a wild cry that petrified Gwyn, just as he was nearing the place where Joe had managed to wedge himself, for it might have meant anything.

Then came relief, for Joe cried exultantly--

”My arm wedged round the block of stone; I've got it out.”

It was Gwyn's turn to cry ”Ah!” now, in the relief he felt; and for a few minutes he lay listening to the peculiar rustling noise beyond him, unable to stir. But he was brought to himself by a kick on the crown of his head, and began to back away from his companion's feet as fast as he could, getting out at last to find Sam Hardock kneeling by the hole, lanthorn in hand, looking utterly despondent.

”It's no good, my lad,” he said, with a groan. ”What's the use o'

punis.h.i.+ng yourself in this way? You ought to know when you're beat.”

”That's what Englishmen never know, Sam,” cried Gwyn.

”Ay, so they say, sir--so they say; but we are beat now.”

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