Sappers and Miners Part 56

"Yes it does. I know! Father said, 'I'll send Grip down; he'll find them.'"

"Well, it does sound likely; but I say, Ydoll, isn't it queer?"

"What, being here?"

"No; while I was so miserable and feeling as I did, I was only faint; now I feel so hungry I could eat anything."

"Same here," said Gwyn; "but it's all right; they're out; father sent Grip--didn't he, Grip?"

The dog barked loudly and leaped up at him.

"There, hear him? He understands," cried Gwyn; but Joe shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. "The dog found us right enough, but that doesn't prove that he'll find his way back."

"He'd better," said Gwyn with mock earnestness; "if he doesn't we'll eat him. Do you hear, sir?"

The dog barked again.

"It's all right," said Gwyn, merrily. "Now then, pack up, and let's go home--do you hear, Grip?"

The dog threw up his head and barked loudly.

"Ready, Joe?"

"Ready--of course."

"Come on, then. Now, Grip, old fellow, lead the way. Go home!"

The dog barked again, and trotted in the opposite direction to which they had expected, making for the partly driven gallery where the roof ran up, showing how the lode of tin had ascended; and when he reached the blank end beginning to bark loudly.

"Come back, stupid!" cried Gwyn; "we found that out ourselves. That's the end of the mine. All right. Now, lead the way home."

But the dog barked again loudly; and it was not until Gwyn followed to the end and seized his collar that he gave up. "Now then, off with you, but don't go too fast. Forward! Quick march!"

The lad had straddled across the dog, holding him between his knees, with head pointed as he believed in the direction of the shaft; and at the last sound he unloosed him from the grip of his knees, and the dog started steadily off, and they followed, but in a few minutes had to take to running, for, after looking back several times to see if he was followed, Grip increased his pace, and directly after disappeared in the darkness beyond the glow shed by the lanthorn.

"You've done it now," cried Joe. "Why didn't you make your handkerchief fast to his collar? He's gone home."

"Think so?" said Gwyn, blankly.

"Yes; that's certain enough; and we're just as badly off as ever."

"No," said Gwyn, in a tone full of confidence; "Grip found us, and he'll come back again for certain."

"But we shall have to stop where we are, perhaps for another day or two."

"Oh, no, he will not be long," said Gwyn; but there was less confidence in his tones, and he stopped short, and began to call and whistle, with the sounds echoing loudly along the tunnel-like place; but for some moments all was silent, and Joe gave vent to a groan.

"Oh, why did you let him go, Ydoll? It was madness."

"Well," said the lad, bitterly, "you were as bad as I--you never said a word about holding him."

"No, I never thought of it," said Joe, with a sigh. "But how horrid, after thinking we were all right!"

"Yet it is disappointing," said Gwyn, gloomily; "but he'll soon come back when he finds that we are not following him; and even if he went right back to them, they'd send him in again."

"I don't believe they did send him in," said Joe, despairingly.

"They must. He couldn't have climbed down the ladders or got into the skep of his own accord, and, if he had, they wouldn't have let him down.

They sent him, I'm sure."

"No, I'm afraid not," said Joe, piteously; "they didn't send him."

"How do you know?"

"Because if they had, they would have done what people always do under such circ.u.mstances--written a note, and tied it to the dog's collar. He had no note tied to his collar, I'm sure."

"No, I didn't see or feel any," said Gwyn, thoughtfully.

"No; we should have been sure to see it if he had one; so, for certain, the dog came of his own will, and I don't think it's likely he'll come again. He may or he may not."

Gwyn did not feel as if he could combat this idea, for Joe's notion that a note would have been tied to the dog's collar--a note with a few encouraging words--seemed very probable; so he remained silent, listening intently for the faintest sound.

But the silence was more terrible than ever, and, saving the musical dash of water from time to time, and an occasional rustle as of a few grains of earth or sand trickling down from the walls, all was still.

"Hear him coming back?" said Gwyn, at last, very dismally.

"No, but there is something I keep hearing. Can't you?"

"I? No," said Gwyn, quickly. "What can you hear?--footsteps?"

"Oh, no; not that. It's a humming, rolling kind of noise, very, very faint; and I can't always hear it. I'm not sure it is anything but a kind of singing in my ears. There, I can hear it now. Can you?"

Gwyn listened intently.

"No. Perhaps it is only fancy. Listen again. Oh, that dog must come back."

Joe sat down, with the lanthorn beside him.

"Oh, don't give up like that!" cried Gwyn. "Let's make a fresh start, and try and find our way out."

"It's impossible--we can't without help."

"Don't I always tell you that a chap oughtn't to wait to be helped, but try to help himself?"

"Yes, you often preach," said Joe, dismally.

"Yes, and try too. Why, I--Ah! hear that?" cried Gwyn, excitedly.