The Ascent of Aspotogon.—Slippery Slopes.—Treacherous Stones.— Tangled Thickets.—A great Disappointment.—Disgust of the Party.—A refreshing Bath.—Exploring a Cave.—Where are the Buccaneers?—In the Water.——An Alarm.—A terrible Monster.—Fright and Flight.—? Sauve qui peut!—The Monster in Pursuit.—The Agonies of Death.—Bruce ashore.—He turns to give Help.—The others safe.—Tom yet in Danger.— The abhorrent Sight.THE boys at length had exhausted all their powers of examination, speculation, and conversation, and began to look about for something to do. It was not yet the appropriate time to dig into what they now all called the “mound,” though that would have been the most agreeable thing in the world in their present frame of mind; so they had to think of some other form of active exercise. Phil suggested that they should climb Aspotogon, and the suggestion was at once welcomed. Here they were at its base. They had come to visit it, and they could not be said to have done it, unless they should also reach its summit. So no sooner was the suggestion made than they all prepared to put it in execution.
The place which they chose for the ascent was that open spot already mentioned. Other places were overgrown with a thick forest, with underbrush, and fallen trees. The ascent was somewhat difficult. The slope was steep, and was covered with loose stones that slid at every step. At first, one went behind the other, but after a few paces they found that this could only be done at the imminent risk of their precious limbs, for the stones dislodged by the foremost climber invariably rolled down upon the one following. They therefore avoided going behind any other of the party, and climbed up abreast. At length the slope of sliding stones was traversed, and they reached a place which was covered with the primeval forest. Here the ascent was, if possible, even more toilsome. There was a thick underbrush through which they had to force their way by a process which made their undeniably shabby clothes even more shabby; the ground was very irregular, now sinking into holes, again rising into low mounds; while at intervals they would encounter some fallen tree, over which they had to climb, or else crawl beneath it. Such were the difficulties in the way of their ascent.
These, however, were all happily surmounted, and the whole party at last stood on the summit of Aspotogon. Here a deep disappointment awaited them. They had taken for granted that they would be rewarded by an extensive view. They hoped to overlook the whole of Mahone Bay, to count its three hundred and sixty-five islands, to see the windings of Deep Cove, and speculate upon the operations of the buccaneers. But instead of this they saw—nothing. For the summit of the hill was all overgrown with trees, which shut out the whole view. Such a reward for so much toil excited the deepest disgust.
“And this is Aspotogon!” cried Bruce. “Why, it’s a complete sham.”
“Talk of this place in comparison with Blomidon!” said Arthur. “Why, it’s sacrilege. This place is only a thicket.”
“What nonsense to call it a mountain!” said Tom. “I don’t believe it’s over a couple of hundred feet or so. I know it’s ten times harder to go up Blomidon.”
“Aspotogon’s a humbug,” said Phil. “What do they mean by saying it’s the highest land in Nova Scotia? It’s the most ridiculous nonsense I ever heard in my life. Besides, as to Blomidon—why, the view from that is the finest in America. And what is there here? A parcel of scrubby trees!”
Such being the sentiments of the climbers, it is no wonder that they did not linger long on the summit. There was nothing to keep them there; so they soon descended. The way down, however, was even worse than the way up, especially when they reached the loose stones. For here the stones slid from under their feet at every step, and it was almost impossible to stand upright. Tom and Phil both went down, and a score of big stones rolled about them, and over them, bruising and scratching them; while before them a whole cartload of cobble stones and granite boulders went bounding down towards the cove. The boys tried it a little way, and then took to the trees, where they completed the descent.
On reaching the knoll once more, they all felt tired and hot. Phil proposed a bath, and the proposal was most agreeable to all. In a few moments their clothes were off and they were all in the water.
The water was pleasantly warm. They had not had a bathe for some time, and here it seemed the perfection of bathing. There was no surf; the water was as smooth as glass, and gave the quiet of a lake with the salt water of the sea. Phil was the best swimmer of them all, and struck out boldly to cross the cove. The others followed. On reaching the middle, Phil turned off in another direction, to a point on the shore where he saw a curious rock that looked like a cave.
“Boys,” he cried, “there’s a cave; let’s go and see it.”
He swam on, and the others followed. They soon reached the place, and climbed up over the rough rock, to see what they supposed to be the cave. To their disappointment, it was not a cave at all, but only a slight recess of no depth in particular.
“I thought we might find some traces of the buccaneers,” said Phil, in a tone of vexation. “We’re not in luck to-day.”
“O, yes, we are,” said Tom, cheerfully. “The discovery of that mound is a good deal.”
“Yes; but then there’s that public road,” said Bruce.
“O, we’ll work it yet. Only wait till we get our tent up.”
Once more the boys plunged in the water, and played, and sported, and dived, and floated, and swam this way and that way; now on their backs, and again in their natural positions. At length they began to feel tired, and directed their course towards the shore.
Tom was last, swimming along leisurely enough, and thinking about the mound and its hidden treasure,—as were all the other boys,—when suddenly he became aware of a movement in the water behind him, as of some living thing swimming. It was not any of the boys. They were all ahead; and it could not be Turnbull. It was not a man at all.
In an instant a terrible thought came to him, that sent a pang of dreadful anguish through his inmost soul.
A shark!
That was the thought that flashed into Tom’s mind.
Hastily and fearfully he turned his head, dreading the worst. One glance was enough. That glance froze his very life-blood with utter horror.
There, not more than six or eight yards away, he saw a black muzzle on the surface of the water, pointing straight towards himself,—a muzzle narrow, and black, and horrible. Tom had never seen a shark; but he had read of them, and had seen pictures of them. One look was enough to convince him that this was a shark, who had scented them from afar, perhaps from the outer sea, and was now about to seize his prey.
His brain whirled, and all the scene for an instant swam before his eyes. A half dozen yards! Could he hope to escape? Impossible! Yet, out of utter despair, there came to him the strength of a giant. He struck out with frantic and frenzied vehemence, shouting and screaming to the other boys,—
“A shark! a shark! a sha-a-a-a-a-a-a-ark!!!”
The other boys heard his yells. They looked around and saw all—the ghastly face and staring eyes of Tom, with the horror of his expression, and beyond—the black muzzle. At that sight, there seized them all a terror equal to that of Tom. In any other position they would have sprung to his help. But what help was possible here?
None. They were naked. They were unarmed. They were in the water. Helpless thus, and despairing, there was nothing which any one of them could do, but to swim blindly on. It was an instinct of self-preservation that animated them all. They fled as they would have fled from an earthquake, or a roaring torrent—blindly—in frantic haste.
Not one word more was uttered. Not a sound was heard except the plashing noise of their movements through the water, and the heavy pantings of the exhausted swimmers. Still, though exhausted, not one of them dared to slacken his efforts. Not one of them dared to look around. In Tom’s mind there was the chilling horror of the monster behind, and a curdling dread of that moment when he would be seized. In the minds of the others there was an equal horror of expectation, as they listened to hear the yell from Tom, which might announce that all was over.
Thus they hurried on.
Tom, in his anguish, thought of something that he had once read of about sharks. He had read that the shark is cowardly, and is kept off by splashing in the water—at least for a time; just as a wild beast is deterred by a fire, or a horse is scared by a log at the road-side. At this thought he grasped. It was his only hope. As he swam, he plashed in the water, with all his force, with arms and legs, making it boil and foam all around him. This retarded his progress somewhat; but at any rate, it seemed to prolong his safety, for the monster did not seem inclined to draw nearer.
The moments passed on. They were not far from land,—yet, O, how far that distance seemed to each despairing swimmer! Upon their distance what issues depended! O, that they had thought of the danger in time, or had seen it a little while before!
The moments passed on—moments terrible, full of sickening anguish, of horror intolerable! How long those moments seemed! To Tom each moment was prolonged to the duration of an age, and an age of hideous expectation—expectation of a doom so frightful, so abhorrent, that every nerve tingled, and every fibre of his body quivered. And there, through the noise of the splashings made by his own efforts, he could plainly distinguish the movements of the monster behind. It did not seem nearer, but it was near enough to seize him at any moment. Why did the monster delay? Was it his splashings which deterred it? Tom hoped so, and thrust the water aside with greater energy.
And now he could hear the movement of the monster a little towards his right. It seemed to him that his pursuer was about to close with him, to attack him from another quarter. He remembered reading somewhere that sharks swim around their prey before seizing it. This movement, he thought, was for that purpose. Every moment he expected to see the dread form of that pursuer appearing between him and Phil, who was nearest. But he dared not look to assure himself. There was too much horror in the awful sight. He dared not turn his head to look behind; he dared not turn his eyes even to one side. He could only keep them fixed, with a wide stare, upon vacancy, straight before him.
The moments passed on,—the awful moments, each of which threatens death, when the delay of the impending doom fills the soul with awful suspense; still the monster hesitated to seize his prey. Still Tom’s ears rang with the noise of his pursuer. Still the other boys, as though their tongues were frozen into silence, hurried to the shore. Still they waited, expecting every instant to hear the terrible shriek which should announce the awful doom of Tom. But the doom was still delayed, and still Tom waited, and still the others listened. So they all hastened, till each one’s heart seemed almost ready to burst, through the frenzied energy of his efforts, and the intensity of his emotions. And there, behind them all,—a little on Tom’s right,—the black muzzle advanced over the surface of the water.
In that desperate struggle, when they made such frantic efforts to reach the shore, Bruce happened to be first. The shore to which they were swimming was that which happened to be nearest; not the grassy knoll before mentioned, but a beach covered with gravel, which was intermixed with larger stones. Bushes grew close down to this beach, and beyond these was that road which had so disgusted the boys.
At this place Bruce first arrived. His feet touched bottom. No sooner did he feel the solid ground under his feet, than all his panic left him, all his courage returned, and his presence of mind. Tom’s expected death-yell had not yet burst upon his ear; not yet had his shriek announced the grasp of the monster. There might yet be time to save. In an instant he had thought of what he should do. Plunging through the water, and bounding forward, he soon reached the beach; and then, stooping down, he hastily gathered several large stones. Then he turned, and rushing back a few steps, stood with uplifted arm, taking aim, and preparing to hurl these stones at the monster. At that very moment Arthur reached the place, and turned to look back, standing close by Bruce. Phil was now only a few yards away, swimming in, with horror yet stamped upon his face. Beyond him was Tom, swimming, kicking, plunging, rolling, dashing the water in all directions, and making as much commotion as would have satisfied an ordinary whale. As Tom thus swam on, his despairing glance caught sight of the forms of Bruce and Arthur. There they stood, up to their waists in water—Bruce with uplifted arm, holding an enormous stone, which he was about to throw—while in his other hand were several more stones. Arthur stood by his side.
Tom devoured them with his eyes; and he struggled on, wondering, yet scarcely daring to hope—wondering whether the stone which Bruce was preparing to throw would drive back the monster. To him it seemed that Bruce was delaying for an unaccountable time. Why did he stand idle, when every moment was so precious? Why did he delay to throw? Why did he not do something? Why did he stand there as if rooted to the spot, doing nothing? Was there some new horror? Were the monster’s jaws already opened to seize his prey?
Tom would have cried to Bruce to throw, but he could not speak. Not a sound could he utter. The thought came to him that Bruce was afraid to throw, for fear that the stone might strike him instead of the shark. What matter? Far better to throw, and run the risk. This he would have said, but he could not in that paralysis of horror.
Suddenly a frown came over Bruce’s face—which frown as suddenly faded away, and was succeeded by a blank look, accompanied by an indescribable expression. The same changes passed over Arthur’s face. Tom saw it all, in his despair, and was bewildered. What was this? Were they deserting him? Would they give him up? Impossible!
Yet it seemed as if they would. For suddenly Bruce’s uplifted arm descended, and the stones all dropped into the water. The blank look upon his face was succeeded by one of astonishment, which faded away into various expressions, which successively indicated all the varying shades of vexation, shame, and sheepishness. Arthur’s face was equally eloquent. Had not Tom’s feelings so pre-occupied him, he might have found a study in those two faces; but as it was, he was not in a position to think of such a thing; for these looks and gestures only served to inspire him with greater alarm.
“They can do nothing,” he thought; and the thought brought to his soul a bitterness as of death.
At this moment Phil’s feet touched bottom. He rushed up to Bruce and Arthur, and turned, as they had turned, to look back.
And at the same moment the abhorrent sight appeared to Tom—of the black muzzle shooting through the water close by his right shoulder. Involuntarily he shrunk aside, with the thought that his last hour had come.
A Roar of Laughter from Bruce.—End of this tremendous Adventure.—Reticence of the whole Party on the Subject.—No one can taunt the other.—Departure from the Haunt of the Buccaneers.—The Antelope expands her white Wings, but in vain.—The Precautions of the venerable Corbet against dead Calms.—All labor at the Sweeps.—The Solace of Toil.—What Vessel are you gliding in?—Taking to the Boat.—Tumbling into Bed.SUDDENLY a roar of laughter burst from Bruce.
“It’s a dog! It’s a dog!” he cried.—“Tom’s shark’s turned out to be a dog!”
And saying this, he burst into another roar of laughter. The laughter proved contagious. Arthur and Phil both joined in. Their recent horror had been so great, that this sudden and unexpected turn affected them in a comical way, and the reaction was in proportion to their former panic fear. So their laughter was loud, boisterous, and unrestrained.
At the very moment when this cry had burst forth from Bruce, together with the peals of laughter, Tom had shrunk back in horror from the black muzzle that appeared on his right. But as he did so, and at the very moment of this horror in which his eyes were fixed on the monster, this monster became plainly revealed, and he saw it as it was.
He saw, what Bruce and the others now saw—a dog! a dog whose long, sharp muzzle and forehead were above the water, as also part of his back and his tail. He was a hound of some kind. Where he had come from, or where he was going to, or why he had appeared among them, they were, of course, unable to conjecture. Their whole recent terror had thus been the result of pure fancy in Tom’s case, and in the case of the others the result of Tom’s first shriek of alarm. In the case of all of them, however, the whole trouble was owing to the belief, of which they were not yet able to divest themselves, that this cove was some very sequestered spot. So convinced had they been of this, that even the sight of a public road had not altogether disabused them. They had been determined to find here the haunt of the buccaneers, and were unwilling to think that it might be a common resort, or even a regular thoroughfare. And therefore, when Torn had first caught sight of this black muzzle appearing above the surface of the water, he had been incapable of thinking about anything except a shark; and the horror that this thought created within him had been communicated to the others by his cries. Tom was the real cause of the whole mistake, and no one felt this more keenly than Tom himself; yet the others were all too much ashamed of their own recent terrors to twit or taunt him with his unfounded alarm.
The dog now swam alongside of Tom, and a little ahead of him, turning once or twice, and showing his face—not the cruel face of a monster of the deep, but the mild, humane, civilized, and benevolent countenance of a hound of the highest respectability; a face the sight of which made Tom feel renewed shame at his foolish and baseless fears.
The other boys walked up to the beach, and Tom soon joined them. The hound joined them also. He was a very friendly dog, and shook himself so violently that they all received a shower-bath from him. They patted him, and petted him, and stroked him; and these friendly advances of theirs were received in the politest possible manner by the well-bred hound, who finally planted himself on his haunches in the attitude known to dogs as “begging,” which so affected the boys, that they would have given him some biscuit if their coats had not unfortunately been elsewhere. But the dog had evidently his own business to attend to, for after a short delay he took his leave, and trotted up the road. This sudden and unexpected turn which had been given to what had, at one time, seemed like the most terrible of tragedies, rapidly restored their strength and spirits, in spite of the tremendous sensations which they had but recently experienced, and the exertions which they had put forth. They now prepared to return to the place where they had left their clothes; and since the fear of sharks had departed, they took to the water again, and soon reached the knoll. Here they clothed themselves, and prepared to return to the schooner.
On reaching the Antelope, they were all sensible of the most extreme fatigue and prostration. The exertions which they had made in the ascent and descent of Aspotogon, and more especially in their efforts to escape the imaginary shark, were the cause of this in part; but a greater cause existed in the intense excitement and terror to which they had been subject. They were fortunate, however, in having such a place of refuge as the hold of the Antelope, for there they found awaiting them a dinner, prepared by Solomon, in which that famous cook had surpassed himself, and had turned out the rarest specimens of the culinary art. Their exertions had sharpened their appetites, and the long time that had elapsed since breakfast made this dinner seem like a banquet. It acted upon them all like a charm. Their physical natures were refreshed, and their moral natures also.
Strength came to their bodies, and at the same time to their minds.
The affair of the shark was not mentioned. Under other circumstances, Bruce, and Arthur, and Phil might have taunted Tom with his absurd mistake; but as it was, they were all too much ashamed of their own fears, and of their own part in the affair. The consequence was, that all, with one consent, allowed the matter to drop, and made no reference to it whatever.
After dinner they went upon deck, and found all sail set, and the Antelope on her way back to Chester. But there was no wind whatever; it was a dead calm, and consequently the return to Chester was not likely to be accomplished very speedily. There was, from time to time, a faint puff of wind, it is true, which served, perhaps, to prevent the calm from being so dead as it might have been; yet, after all, their motion was so slight, and their progress so slow, that after two hours they had not put much more than a mile between themselves and the shore.
It was about four o’clock when they returned from Deep Cove to the Antelope. By six o’clock they had not made more than this one mile. The boys were now anxious to get back to Chester for various reasons. First, they wanted to have a good night’s rest at the inn. Secondly, they wanted to see the landlord, and ask him all about Deep Cove. Thirdly, they wanted to see Bart and Pat, and tell them about their wonderful discovery of the “Mound,” and their theory about the buried treasure. But the failure of the wind made it seem impossible for them to get back to Chester that night, and there was some talk of anchoring. To this, however, the boys would not listen, and they urged Captain Corbet to keep on and take advantage of any slight puffs of wind that might arise from time to time. Against this request Captain Corbet had no objections to offer, and so it was that the Antelope still moved on.
The Antelope therefore still held her sails expanded to catch any breath of wind that might arise, while the boys lounged along the taffrail, looking impatiently around. At another time they would not have failed to admire the beauty of the scene—the blue sea washing the long line of shore, and surrounding the numerous isles; but on the present occasion, they were too impatient and too tired to be affected by it. Time thus passed, and at length the sun went down in the western sky in a blaze of glory. By that time the boys found themselves approaching an island, which was about three miles from Aspotogon, and which thus indicated to them the distance which they had gone since leaving Deep Cove. Less than three miles in four hours had been their rate of progress.
The sun thus set, and the moon had now come out, throwing a gentler glow upon the scene, and lighting it up with wonderful beauty. The edges of the hills, and the outlines of the islands seemed all tipped with silver. On one side appeared Aspotogon, and Ironbound, and Tancook, rising out of the dark, shadowy water; while on the other side the islands shone in the lustre of the moon, and there, too, a broad pathway of radiant light lay outspread upon the surface of the water, reaching from the schooner to the horizon, where a low coast bounded the scene. Never had Ma-hone Bay appeared clothed in greater loveliness.
Captain Corbet had learned a very useful lesson during this last voyage of the Antelope, and that was to have some means on board by which he would not drift so helplessly. The long drifts which had borne him hither and thither over the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and over the ocean, had left a deep impression; and accordingly he had taken advantage of this visit to Chester to procure a pair of long sweeps, which may be described as oars of the largest size. On the present occasion, the sweeps were brought into requisition, one of them being worked by Turnbull, Bruce, and Phil, while the other was taken in hand by Wade, Arthur, and Tom. The venerable Corbet stood at the helm and steered, while Solomon stood at the bows, gazing pensively into space, and, as Tom declared, attitudinizing for a figure-head.
The sweeps were moved with very long, slow strokes. The two parties who managed them at first made an effort to work them in time, but at length gave this up, and each made their stroke at random, without reference to the others. Whether the Antelope made any progress or not, was not for a long time perceptible; but still the boys all felt as though they were doing something, and the lapse of time certainly seemed to bring them nearer to the island which they had been so long approaching.
The exercise was a pleasant one, and in order to cheer their spirits, they burst forth into songs. One was volunteered by Tom.What vessel are you gliding in?Pray tell to me its name;Our vessel is the Antelope,And Corbet is my name,And Corbet is my name,And Corbet is my name;Our vessel is the Antelope,And Corbet is my name.
At this Captain Corbet’s venerable face was all suffused with sudden smiles.
“Why railly.” said he, “railly now, dew tell. Why, ef you ain’t ben an done it agin. Only think, more rimes about me. Why, it doos beat all. How upon airth dew you ever manage to fix em up that way? It doos—beat—my—grandmother!”
Other songs followed, till almost everything was made use of that they had ever heard—the Canadian Boat Song, the Maltese Boat Song, and others of a kindred character, including “Hail to the Chief,” and “March! March! Ettrick, and Teviotdale.” In this way the time was beguiled, and their toil at the long sweeps lightened.
Around them the whole scene glowed in the moonlight. The silver islands set in silver seas, clothed in soft lustre, lay reflected in the smooth water. Overhead the moon hung in a cloudless sky, and lightened up all things with its soft and mellow radiance. They could see also by the change in their position, which they noticed from time to time, that they were actually making some progress with their sweeps, and the discovery, when it was made, encouraged them not a little.
So at it they all went again, more vigorously than ever, and sang new songs, some of which were of a kind never before heard in these waters. One in particular, which was sung to a remarkable fugue tune, was called Ode to Disappointment.I never had a piece of breadParticularly wide,Partic-kik-kik-kik-kik-cu-lar-ly wide,But fell upon the dusty floor,All on the buttered side.All on the but—All on the but—All on the but—All on the but—All on the but-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tered side.And always thus, from childhood’s hour,This luck on me has fell.This luck-kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk on me has fell.There always comes a soaking shower,When I’ve no umberell,When I’ve no umb—When I’ve no umb—When I’ve no umb—When I’ve no umb—When I’ve no umb-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-be-rell!
This spirited ode was the arrangement of Phil, who prided himself hugely upon it. He did not claim it as original, but as having been “arranged” and “adapted” to its present tune.
“Well, boys,” said Bruce at length, “I dare say we are making some progress; but it strikes me that it hardly pays.”
“No,” said Tom. “At this rate it’ll take us till to-morrow morning to make another mile.”
“I don’t object to rowing all night,” said Phil, “but I do object to row without getting the benefit of it.”
“I move,” said Arthur, “that we vote the sweeps a humbug.”
“I second that motion,” said Phil.
“Gentlemen,” said Bruce, “it’s being moved and seconded, that the sweeps are a humbug. Those of that mind will please manifest it by saying Ay.”
“Ay!” rang forth from Arthur, Tom, and Phil.
“Contrary minds, Nay.”
No response.
“It’s a vote,” said Bruce. “And now, gentlemen, we may as well consider what’s to be done next.”
“O, well,” said Phil, as he and the other boys left the sweeps which Turnbull and Wade, however, still kept working. “I suppose there’s nothing left to do but to turn in.”
“It can’t be helped,” said Arthur.
“We’ll have to make the best of it,” said Tom.
“I say, boys,” said Bruce, “why can’t we take the boat and row to Chester?”
“A good idea,” cried Arthur. “Capital. I only wish we’d done it before.”
“Captain,” said Tom, “we’re going to take the boat.”
“Hadn’t you better wait a little,” said the anxious Corbet, who was evidently not pleased with the proposal.
“O there’s no use; we want to get to Chester to-night. You’ll get along before morning. How many miles is it from here?” he asked, turning to Turnbull.
“Four,” said that taciturn individual.
“Four miles. Well, boys, what do you say?”
“I’m agreed,” said Bruce.
“And I,” said Arthur.
“Anything’s better than this,” said Phil; “so I agree to the boat.”
With this agreement they all turned to the boat, and got in. A few brief directions were given by Turnbull, and the boys pulled away. First Bruce and Arthur pulled, then Tom and Phil. Taking turns in this way, they had the satisfaction of seeing themselves making good progress, and at length reached the wharf at Chester.
It was about three o’clock in the morning. They knocked up the people at the inn, and hurried up to their rooms. They were so utterly worn out, and so sleepy, that they did not think of asking about Bart and Pat, but tumbled into bed, and in a few moments were all sound asleep.
Bart and Pat.—Terrible Situation. ‘—The first Horror, and its Effects.—An Attempt to climb.—Another Attempt to scale the Corners.—Trying the Sides.—Too wide by far.—Pat wants to tie a Rope to Nothing.—The Pickaxe.—New Attempts at Climbing.—New Disappointments.—Pat’s Fertility of Invention.—A new Suggestion.—A dangerous Experiment.—Running the Risk.—Tugging at the Logs.—The obstinate Fabric.—Baffled and beaten.THERE, side by side, stood the two boys, at the bottom of the deep pit, into which they had descended; and, standing there, they looked with unutterable feelings at the opening far above them, across which was suspended the treacherous beam. At first there was a thrill of expectation, in both of them, that the beam was even then breaking, and at any instant might fall and crush them. It had sagged down so far, and the fracture was so complete, that the end might come in another moment. Thus they stood, and looked up in silence, and with hearts that throbbed fast and painfully. Neither of them spoke a word. It was as much as they could do to breathe.
A terrible position it was, and how terrible they knew only too well. One hundred feet below the ground, and seventy feet below the level of the sea—such was the depth of that pit. It was so long and so narrow that the bottom was quite dark. As they stood with their eyes thus fixed on the threatening beam, they noticed that the sky beyond it had changed in its color from blue to black, and two or three stars were faintly visible. It was like the sky of night, and not like that of day. That little piece of sky thus indicated to them the change in their fate, and seemed to frown upon them from above.
In their minds there was one prevailing sense of mute horror and awful expectation; yet, together with this, a thousand other thoughts flashed through them—thoughts of friends, thoughts of home, wild speculations as to the possibility of escape; and with these they noticed also that black piece of sky, with its faintly-twinkling stars. But between them and it, between the upper world which that sky spoke of and themselves, there intervened that broken beam stretching across like a bar, to shut them in forever.
Now, gradually, the first horror passed. It was too intense a feeling to endure. The delay of their fate made them calmer, and brought back presence of mind; for the beam moved no more—it fell not—perhaps it might remain as it was, threatening them, but doing no more than that. This respite from their doom thus brought them back to themselves, and made them search eagerly the sides of the pit as they looked up.
“I wonder if we can’t climb it, thin,” said Pat.
“I’m afraid not,” said Bart, in a dejected tone.
“Sure an there’s no harrum in given it a thrial,” said Pat; and, as he said so, he laid his hands upon the staying around the hole. Scarce had he done this, than he was aware of a difference between the staying here, and that which was higher up. Bart, also, who had done as Pat had done, and tried to find some way of climbing, noticed the same thing.
Had the staying below been like that above, the question of their escape would very soon have been settled by such practised climbers as these two; but, unfortunately, there was a very important difference. Above, the staying had been made of stout planks and deals, and these were far enough apart to have served for grasping by both hands and feet. They would thus have afforded an actual ladder. Below, however, it was very different. The staying of the sides of the pit was made, not of planks, which could be grasped by the hands, but of round logs, which the hands could not hold, though the feet could insert themselves well enough in the interstices. These logs rested closely one upon the other, nor was there any way by which the hands could pass between them or around them so as to grasp them. This, then, was the discovery that Bart and Pat made the moment that they tried their hands at climbing; and thus the first plan of escape which had suggested itself was baffled most completely.
“If we only had the planks!” sighed Bart: “but these round logs give no chance.”
Pat made no reply.
Bart then tried to climb at the corner, for here there would be more advantage to the feet, since the sides, being at right angles, would afford an easier foothold. But, though it was easier for the feet, it gave no greater help to the hands than before. Still, there were the round logs; nor was there at the angle formed by the sides any spaces sufficient to receive the hand and afford a hold.
“If we cud only get up as far as the rope,” said Pat, “it might give us a help, so it might.”
“What! when that beam is hanging there? Why, if you touched that rope the beam would come down.”
“Sure an I forgot that for the moment, so I did,” said Pat, dejectedly.
“Strange we didn’t notice that the beam was rotten,” said Bart, mournfully. “It looked sound enough.”
“It looked as sound as a nut, so it did; and how it managed to howld on till I jarked it bates me intirely, so it does.”
“It must have been sagging down and cracking all the time. The only wonder is, that it didn’t give way when we were higher up. If it had, there’d have been an end of us.”
“Sure ‘n you niver spoke a truer word in your life, so you didn’t; an, be the same token, it’s a good sign, so it is, an a fine thing intirely, that we’re down here now at this blissid minute, wid our bones not broke to smithereens. Sure but it makes me fairly shiver whin I think of you an me, one after the other, hangin away up there from that bit of rotten stick that was broken all the time.”
“If this wasn’t quite so wide,” Said Bart, “we might stretch our legs across, and get up that way. I’ve seen men go down into wells as easy as you please, just by stretching their legs across.”
“Sure an meself it is that’s seen that same,” said Pat, briskly; “an I wondher whether, afther all, our legs mightn’t be long enough to do it.”
“O, no,” said Bart; “it’s too wide altogether.”
“Sure an we might then; an there’s nothin like tryin.”
With these words Pat set himself to try, and Bart did the same. They tried by stretching their legs as far as possible on each side to secure a foothold, and thus ascend. Had the pit been narrower, or had their legs been longer, they could have done it; but, as it was, they found it quite impossible. They could, indeed, touch the beams on either side if they stretched their legs as far apart as possible; but, having accomplished this, they could do no more. They could not raise their feet higher to the log above. So rigid were their legs when thus spread apart, that they could not raise them. At length they were compelled to desist from these efforts.
“It’s too wide intirely, so it is,” said Pat, dolefully. “An whativer was the use of makin the hole so wide is beyond me. It wasn’t any use at all at all, so it wasn’t; an there you have it.”
“The fault’s in our legs as much as in the pit,” said Bart. “If we were five years older we might do it.”
“Sure I always thought I cud climb betther thin any man till this blissid momint,” said Pat.
“I only wish I was a man for about five minutes,” said Bart, fervently.
“Two minutes’d jist do it, so it wad,” said Pat. “Yes,” said Bart.
“An these logs don’t go all the way up. If we cud only get up to the planks we’d be all right.”
“I didn’t notice particularly,” said Bart, “but it seems to me that the plank staying reaches nearly half way down.”
“Full that, ivery inch of it, so it does,” said Pat. “If we could only get up as far as that!” exclaimed Bart.
“Faith, I have it,” said Pat, suddenly. “What?” asked Bart, with some excitement.
“I have it,” repeated Pat. “It’s a rope we want.”
“A rope!” exclaimed Bart.
“Yis, a bit of a rope; ony we haven’t got one long enough.”
“Why, what good would a rope be to us here?” asked Bart, in a puzzle to know what in the world Pat had got into his head.
“Sure, I have it. Can’t we twist a rope an make this longer?”
“I don’t know what you’re after,” said Bart, impatiently. “What do you mean?”
“Sure an we can tear up our coats an shirts, an make a rope that way; ony,” he added, thoughtfully, “it mightn’t be long enough, so it mightn’t.”
“Nonsense,” said Bart; “you’re crazy. What do we want of a rope?”
“Sure, to climb with.”
“How? Where would you fasten it?”
“Fasten it, is it?” said Pat, in a dubious tone; “sure that same I niver thought of at all at all. I forgot all about it, so I did.”
“Well, we’ll have to do something,” said Bart. “We can’t stand still here and die.”
“There’s the bit of a pick here,” said Pat. “Sure an we ought to be able to do somethin with the pick, so we ought.”
And with these words he stooped and lifted up the pickaxe which he had thrown in before they went down, and which, in the anguish and excitement which they had thus far felt, had been altogether forgotten.
“We ought to do something with that,” said Bart.
“It won’t do any good to more thin one of us,”. said Pat, sadly, “for only one of us can use it at a time.”
“Nonsense,” said Bart; “if one of us can only climb up, can’t he help the other?”
“Sure an so he can,” said Pat; “an I niver thought of that, so I didn’t.”
“I wonder if we can climb with that?” said Bart.
“Sure an we can try,” said Pat; “an we ought to do somethin, so we ought.”
With these words, he thrust the pick between two timbers, a few feet above his head, and then clutching it, he raised himself up to a level with the pick, in the easiest way possible. Hanging there for a moment, with his hands grasping the pick, and his feet stuck tight between the logs, he tried to raise himself higher. To do this, it was necessary to hold himself there, while removing the pick, and raising it to the logs farther up. But here was the fatal and insuperable difficulty; and this brought them exactly back to where they were before. Do what he would, his hands could not grasp the round logs with sufficient firmness to maintain a hold. After a few efforts he gave it up, and jumped down.
Bart then tried, making his attempt at the corner of the pit, where the angle of the two sides favored him more. Striking the pick in between two logs, as high up as he could reach, he raised himself up as Pat had done, and then tried to lift himself higher. He found a place which he could grasp, and clinging to this with a convulsive effort, he raised the pick to the logs farther up, and succeeded in thrusting it into a new place. Then he drew himself up higher, and once more searched about for a place to grasp. But now no place could be found. In vain he tried to thrust his fingers between the logs; in vain he sought to grasp the round surface. It was a thing that could not be done. After a long but fruitless effort, Bart was compelled to give up. Yet he was not satisfied. He tried the other three corners of the pit in succession. In all of them his efforts met with the same result—failure, utter and hopeless.
At length he flung down the pick, and stood panting.
“Deed, thin, an I’m glad to see you back, so I am,” said Pat.
“Glad!” said Bart.
“Yis, glad I am; that same’s what I mane. I’d rather have you fail down here, than half way up. You niver cud go all the way; an if you had to turrun back when half way up, it’s a sore head I’d have watchin you; an you cud niver expict to git back here again without broken bones.”
“If we only had one other pickaxe,” said Bart, “I could do it.”
“Of coorse you cud; an if we had dizens of other things, you cud do it, so you cud, an so cud I; but there’s the throuble, an that’s what we’ve got to contind against, so it is.”
“We’ll have to do something,” said Bart, gloomily and desperately.
“Sure an that’s thrue for you, so it is, an you niver spoke a thruer word in yer life, so you didn’t,” said Pat; “an be the same token, it’s with this pick, so it is, that we’ve got to work,—for it’s the only thing we’ve got at all at all.”
“What can we do,” said Bart, in the same gloomy tone, “if we can’t climb?”
“Sure an there’s lots more, so there is,” said Pat, who on this occasion showed a wonderful fertility of invention. “I’ve ben a thinkin,” he added, “that we might dig away these logs with the pick.”
“What good would that do?” asked Bart.
“Sure an we might dig thim out one by one, an pile thim up as we dug thim, an so we might make a pile of logs high enough to reach to the top.” Bart was silent for a few moments. The suggestion was certainly of some value.
“I wonder whether we mightn’t shake that log down on us, by pounding away down here?”
“Sure an it’s the only thing,” said Pat. “We’ve got to run some risk, of coorse; an I don’t think that our blows would be felt so high up. Besides, we needn’t sthrike very hard.”
“Well,” said Bart, “it’s the only thing we can do.”
Upon this, Pat inserted the point of the pick between the logs near him, and tried to pry the lower one out at one end. But the stubborn log resisted his efforts. It had been too firmly fixed in its place to yield to such a slight force as that which he could bring. Bart lent his efforts, and the two exerted themselves with their utmost strength, but altogether in vain.
“If we cud ony git out one log,” said Pat, “it wud be aisy workin out the others, so it wud; but this one seems a tough customer, so it does.”
“There ought to be some log about here,” said Bart, “weaker than others.”
“Sure an that’s thrue for you,” said Pat, “an so we’ll jist thry thim all one afther another, ivery one of them. We’ve got lots of time, so we have.”
“See, here’s a smaller one,” said Bart.
Pat struck the point of the pick where Bart pointed, and once more the two boys exerted themselves to pry out the log. But though this one was somewhat smaller than the other, it was quite as firmly fixed, and the utmost efforts of both of them failed to move it, even in the slightest degree, from its bed.
“Sure an there’s no danger of this pit iver cavin in,” said Pat, as he desisted from his efforts. “They made this pit strong enough to howld a iliphant, so they did—the worse for us.”
“Well,” said Bart, “we’ll have to try every log that’s within reach.”
“Sure an we ought to find some weak spot if we do, so we ought,” said Pat.
Bart now inserted the pick between the logs just above the last one.
“This is jist what we intinded to do whin we come down,” said Pat; “for weren’t we goin to thry to git to the money-hole?”
Bart said nothing.
The two boys now tugged away as before. But the result was the same, for this log was as firmly fixed, as tough, and as obdurate as the others.
“Sure an it’s hard, so it is, that the very log we trusted our lives to should turrun out to be rotten, an all these logs here should be as sound an as strong as steel an iron, ivery mother’s son of thim. If we cud only find a rotten one, an pull it out of its place, we’d be able to git at the others aisy, and haul out all the rist of thim.”
The boys now tried other logs, one after the other; but from all of them they met with the very same stubborn resistance. They had all been placed here evidently by men who worked comscientiously, and were determined to leave no weak spot exposed to the pressure of the earth. And, as was natural, that which had withstood so well the pressure of the surrounding soil, was easily able to withstand the puny efforts of a couple of boys.