Sappers and Miners Part 58

"Well, I am right over my waist," said Gwyn. "Shall we go on? We can swim if it gets deeper."

"I say, let's try it a little farther." And holding the light well up, they waded on, with the water growing deeper, till it reached their chests and soon after their chins.

"Now then--go back or swim?" asked Gwyn.

"Oh, go on; Grip must know. I suppose the floor has gone down a good deal here."

"Can you keep the lanthorn out of the water? If you can't we must not go on; because it would be too horrible to swim here in the dark, and I don't know whether I could keep on with only one hand swimming and holding Grip with the other."

"He'd tow you along," said Joe.

"Halt! Hold the light higher," shouted Gwyn, and his words reverberated strangely.

_Grate, grate, scratch_, came a strange sound.

"Do you hear what I say?" cried Gwyn, excitedly.

"I can't, I can't--there isn't room."

"Then give it to me," said Gwyn, fiercely, from where he stood a few yards now in advance of his companion. "How am I to see what I'm doing?--and I know you'll have it in the water directly."

"Don't I tell you I can't?" cried Joe, wildly. "Can't you see there isn't room? I'm holding it close up to the roof now." And at a glance Gwyn saw that the roof was so low where they were that the gallery was nearly filled by the water.

"Oh, hang the dog!" cried Gwyn, desperately. "Quiet, sir! Come back!"

for with the water steadily deepening it seemed madness to let the animal lure them on into what appeared to be certain death.

"Yes, yes, come back," panted Joe; "it's horrible. Here, Grip, Grip, Grip! Here, here, here!"

But the dog only whined and swam on, and then began to beat the water wildly as if he were drowning, for in his excitement and dread, Gwyn had now begun to haul upon the leash, dragging the dog partly under water in his efforts to get hold of its collar.

It was no easy task; for as the dog rose again, it was evidently frightened by its immersion beneath the surface, and began barking, whining, and struggling to escape from its master's grasp.

"What is it? What are you doing?" cried Joe, as he held the light close to the roof.

"Doing? Can't you see the dog's half mad. Quiet, Grip! What is it!

Hold still, will you?"

But this seemed to be the last thing the poor beast was disposed to do; for the tie, drag under the surface, and the seizure by the collar were all suggestive to its benighted intellect of death by drowning; and just as Gwyn, chin-deep in the water now and hardly able from his natural buoyancy to keep his footing, was backing towards the light, holding by the collar with both hands, the dog gathered itself together with its hind-legs resting against its master's breast, and made a tremendous bound as if for life.

Gwyn had had some experience of the muscular power in a collie dog, but never till that moment did he fully realise what strength a desperate animal does possess; for that bound sent the dog forward and him backward; and completely off his balance, his head went down, his legs rose from his buoyancy in the water, and as he made a desperate effort to regain his feet, there came a sharp drag at the neckerchief he had twisted round his hand, and he was dragged under in turn and towed along for some moments before he could get his head above the surface of the black water again. Then, obeying his natural instinct, he struck out and began to swim, feeling himself drawn steadily along by the dog farther and farther from the light which gleamed from the water, and into the black darkness and the unknown depths.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

THE HELP AT LAST.

Joe uttered a groan, and began to wade after his companion, sc.r.a.ping the lanthorn against the roof from time to time in his agitation. He would have called to Gwyn to come back, but he could not find the words. He felt, though, that he must follow to help him, and began to wonder whether he could keep the light above water with one hand as he swam; and he prepared to try, for he felt that he must strike out as soon as the water touched his chin.

Then he paused, for from out of the darkness, and loud above the splashing, came Gwyn's angry words to the dog.

"You wretch! Come back!" he roared. "Wait till I get out of this, and I'll give you such a licking as will make your coat rougher than ever.

Come back, will you!"

Grip made no sign of hearing, but swam on with all his might, and as he swam with one hand, Gwyn kept on lowering his feet to try for the bottom; but the dog's swimming was so energetic that the boy lost his balance again and again, and had a lesson in a man's helplessness in the water.

At last, and just when a feeling of dread was beginning to freeze his nerves, Gwyn, on lowering his legs, touched the rock, and giving an angry drag at the kerchiefs to check the dog, he regained his feet, and found the water little above his waist.

"It's all right," he panted. "Come on, Joe; the floor dips down there, and you're nearly in the deepest part, I think. I don't suppose you'll have to swim. I shouldn't if this wretch of a dog had not pulled me over."

Joe waded on very slowly and cautiously, finding his companion's words quite correct, and that, after just keeping his mouth above water, the level sank during the next few paces to his chin, then to his chest, and soon after to his waist, after which he easily reached his dripping companion.

"Nice mess, isn't it?" said Gwyn. "I wish old Sam Hardock was in it-- pretending that the mine was pumped out. Will you be quiet, Grip?

There, get on! It's all right if we're going in the proper direction;"

and then, after wading on about a couple of hundred yards with the water still falling, Grip was able to walk, and uttering a joyous bark, he splashed along for a little way, and then stopped short, and gave himself a regular canine water-distributing shake which made him seem as if about to throw off his skin.

"Look at that," cried Gwyn now. "Only just wet above one's shoes."

Another fifty yards and they were upon the dry rocky floor, which they liberally bedewed with the water which trickled from their clothes as they were hurried on by the dog, who strained more than ever at his leash.

"It must be a good sign for him to tug like this," said Gwyn.

"Yes; he seems to know the way. It's of no use to try and stop him, for we know that we were all wrong, and perhaps he's right."

"Yes; look at him," said Gwyn; "there can't be a doubt about it. See how he tugs to get along."

"Yes; and now I think of it," said Joe, eagerly, "we haven't come through that hall-like place with the pillars all about."

"Haven't come to it yet, perhaps."

Joe shook his head, and gave his companion a meaning look.

"It isn't that," he said. "We've come quite a different way."

"Well, it doesn't matter," said Gwyn, so long as we get to the foot of the shaft; "and I shall be very glad, for, wet, tired, and hungry, it's very horrible being here."

They went on, led by the dog like two blind beggars Gwyn said, as he tried to look cheerfully upon their position, when he received another mental check, for Joe cried suddenly, "Stop a moment, for there's something wrong with this candle;" and a shudder worse than that which had attacked the boy when the water first rose to his breast ran through his nerves.

Joe opened the door of the lanthorn with a jerk, and the candle, which had fallen over on one side and was smoking the gla.s.s, dropped out on to the rocky floor; but Gwyn stooped quickly and saved it from becoming extinct, while the dog uttered an impatient bark and dragged at the leash again.

And it was always so as they proceeded, that the boys' strength, which had flickered up at the hope of rescue brought by the dog, rapidly burned down now like the candle, which quickly approached its end; while the dog seemed to be untiring and toiled and tugged away, as if trying to draw his master onward. They spoke less and less, and dragged their feet, and grew more helpless, till at the end of a couple of hours Joe suddenly said,--

"It's of no use, Ydoll; I can go no farther, and he's only taking us more into the mine. There isn't a bit of it we've pa.s.sed before."

"Never mind; we must trust him now," said Gwyn, sadly; "we can't go back."

"No, but we oughtn't to have trusted him at all. We ought to have felt that we knew better than a dog."