CHAPTER XXI. RIVALS FOR THE HONOURS OF DEATH.
A night of dread foreboding, of weary watching for the day that seemed as if it would never come. With what tantalising slowness did the snail-like stars crawl across the black vault of the heavens! And when day came, what then?
Hunger and thirst, danger and despair, and the certainty of death! But no need to await the dawn for these; already they were here. Comfortable bed-fellows, truly, and for a bed the bare, unyielding rock.
Jack lay with his head pillowed upon the coil of rope. Not that he found it a comfortable resting-place. The knowledge of what the rope could not do for them made it a pillow of thorns. He could not rest. The last thread of hope had broken, plunging him into the abyss of despair. Besides, his arm had become extremely painful within the last hour; he was restless, feverish. Fever goads the brain. Jack's brain was just then busier, perhaps, than it had ever been before. He felt none of the sharp gnawings of hunger, none of the insatiable cravings of thirst, though, as a matter of fact, these were even then conspiring with his wound to fever his blood and keep him awake, and make him think, think, think with: never an instant's pause. When thought is goaded like this, it speedily verges on delirium.
To give way to despondency was not at all like Jack; and as he tossed from side to side and thought upon the “whine” (that was what he called it, in his own mind) in which he had indulged a little while ago when the utter desperateness of the situation first burst upon him—when he thought of this, he felt heartily ashamed of himself. He was a coward, a rank, out-and-out coward. He hated himself for his faint-hearted, babyish lack of spirit. But he would redeem his reputation yet. He would show them—meaning Don and the blacks—that he was no coward, anyhow!
The blacks, as they crossed and recrossed each other on their noiseless beat, thought little and said less. They were desperately hungry, and hunger is the one fellow-feeling that does not make us wondrous kind. Every now and then they tightened their waist-cloths a little, but beyond this gave no outward sign or token of what they thought or felt.
So the night wore on, and still Jack thought in restless silence. There was a deeper flush on his cheek, but it was no longer the flush of shame. The fever in his blood, the delirium in his brain, were rising. So was his resolution. He flung himself about restlessly, muttering. He would show them he was no coward, anyhow!
So the night wore on, until by-and-by, as Don turned for the hundredth time upon his uneasy couch—for he, too, was unable to rest—his hand came into accidental contact with that of his chum. He started; Jack's hand was fiery hot.
Housed by his companion's touch and movement, Jack sat bolt upright, and gazed about him in an excited, feverish fashion, muttering incoherently. His breath came and went in short, hurried catches, and in his eyes shone an unnatural wildness that struck terror to Don's heart. Knowing nothing of his chum's resolve, he thought him simply delirious.
“Lie down,” he said soothingly, placing his hand on Jack's shoulder, and attempting, with gentle force, to push him back into his former recumbent position.
Jack flung the hand aside petulantly. Whatever of delirium there might be in his eyes and manner, his words, though spoken rapidly and with excitement, were rational enough.
“Look here, old fellow,” he cried, “it's all my fault, your being here in this fix; and I'm bound to do my level best to get you safe out of it, especially after the way I funked a while back. No, don't cut in and try to stop me—I know what I'm saying right enough, though I expect I do look a bit wild and that. Now, my arm here—I ain't said much about it—'tain't like me to whine, anyhow—at least not often—but all the same, my arm's getting jolly bad. Knotting the rope and that, you see, has made it a bit worse, and—well, the fact is, old fellow, I don't believe I could go down that rope to save my neck, even supposing it to be fastened, you understand.”
“I feared as much,” said Don gravely.
“Yes? Well, that's just how it stands,” Jack went rapidly on. “Tisn't that I'm afraid, you understand—there's no cliff hereabouts that would make me funk—it's simply that my arm's out of gear and won't work. Not even if the rope were fastened, you see, which it isn't. And that's what I'm coming at, old fellow. Look here, I'll tell you what we can do. Spottie and Pug can lower you away—over the cliff, you know—and then, when Pug and I have sent Spottie after you, I'll manage somehow to pay out the line while Pug follows. He's the lightest weight of the lot, anyhow.”
“All very well,” demurred Don, who thought he saw a fatal objection to Jack's plan, “but how will you get down yourself?”
“Oh, my getting down isn't in the bill at all,” said Jack; “I mean to stay right here.”
This announcement fairly took Don's breath away. He had supposed all along that Jack was holding the pith of his proposal in reserve; but never once had he so much as dreamed of such a climax as this.
“What! stop here?” he gasped. “You don't know what you're saying—it's certain death.”
“Hope I ain't such a duffer as not to know that,” said Jack brusquely. “All the same, I mean to stay.”
“Don't say that, Jack.”
“Why not? Better one than four.”
“Then I'll stop with you,” said Don, with dogged determination. “The blacks may have my chance and welcome. Nothing on earth will induce me to go.”
His chum was silent for a long time after that—so long, indeed, that Don thought the matter settled for good and all. But in this he was mistaken.
“Say, old fellow,” said Jack at last, “tell you what I'll do; I'll toss you as to which of us is togo. What do you say?”
“No, no,” cried Don.
“But why not? Where's the use of being such a softie over the matter? There are no end of reasons why I should stay, I tell you. For one thing, I've got no mother to consider.”
“That's true enough,” assented Don, gulping as he thought of his own mother.
“And no sisters or brothers.”
“Don't,” said Don huskily; “you forget me, Jack.”
“No, I don't,” protested Jack; “you are more to me than any brother could ever be, old man; but that's only an additional reason why I should see you safe out of this mess. Then there's another thing; you know how good the guv has always been to me—sent me to school, and treated me just as if I was his own son, you know.”
“Yes?” said Don.
“Well, I've always felt that if ever I got the chance I should like to repay his kindness, don't you know; and now that the chance has come I don't mean to let it slip. Say, will you toss?” Don wavered. It seemed terribly hard that they should all have to die like so many rats in a trap. Besides, once he and the blacks were off the Rock, they could fall back on the cutter, renew their stock of ammunition, and——
“I'll toss you on one condition,” he said suddenly.
“What condition's that?”
“Why, this. That after the die is cast we take no further steps until daylight, so as to make quite sure there's no way of securing the rope to the rock. Are you agreed?”
For reply Jack held out his hand, and thus the compact was sealed. Then Don drew a rupee from his pocket and passed it to his companion... “Tails, you go,” said Jack, and tossed.
A flash of silver in the moonlight, a mocking jingle, and the coin lay still. Eagerly the rivals for the honours of death bent over it.
“Tails!”
“I knew it!” said Jack quietly; “and what's more, I'm jolly glad it isn't heads.”
His chum turned quickly away and bowed his head upon his knees, while a sound suspiciously like a stifled sob broke the stillness of the night. Jack crept close up to him and slipped an arm about his neck. So, for a long time, they sat in silence.