“I’ll carry the rope up, sir. I know the way. Harry and I climbed it once before.”
“No,” cried Uncle Jenico, sharply and decisively. “I won’t have you go on any account, Richard!”
“Then it’s to be me!” cried Harry; and, as I muttered discontentedly, trying to block his way, he evaded me and ran for the shaft. Mr. Sant, trailing the rope, followed him, and in a moment they were under its shadow.
I chafed, watching them: but my relative was inexorable. And, indeed, to speak truth, there was considerably more risk in the venture than formerly before the storm. Harry, however, accomplished his part in safety; and, while he still dwelt aloft, holding the loop in place, Mr. Sant captured the two ends of the rope, and came running towards us with them. In a moment we had pulled them taut and clamped them in place to the wheel. And then we hailed Harry to come down, which he did, rather with a run, so afraid was he of missing any detail of the sport.
Uncle Jenico had already given a half-turn to the wheel, in order to clinch the hold of the rope; and now he stood in a tense eagerness, dwelling on the psychologic moment. He held, by right of patent, the larboard spokes; Mr. Sant, the port. The dear old man was so wrought up out of feebleness, that I was apprehensive of the part he insisted upon taking in the manipulation of his own design. He would not be denied, however; and who could have had the heart to disappoint him? Was not this the very first time that his genius for invention promised him a harvest of gold? He took a long breath, and tightened his hold on the spokes.
Joshua stood rigid, awaiting the result. Harry and I shook on wires, staring from the wrench to the shaft, and hardly stifling the exclamations that rose to our lips. It was a solemn moment.
“Go!” cried Uncle Jenico; and the wheel spun a little, stiffened, and began to cry ominously.
Something cracked; thank Heaven it was only Uncle Jenico’s braces! The old man tugged and puffed, wrestling with his task. Suddenly he staggered—the wheel seemed to give and spin away from him—and he was almost on his face. In the same moment I fancied the shadow of a night-bird had crossed my vision—and I looked; and where had been the well was nothing. It was fallen prone upon the sand, so wearily, so softly, that in that humming wind no sound of the concussion had reached us.
Hardly suppressing a cry of triumph, we dropped everything, and raced for the place. The shaft in falling had broken into three pieces, of which the middle one was in a proportion of two-fourths. The fracture nearest the base was only three or so inches in width; but the top fragment was quite detached, and tilted over a little away from the neck.
Where the shaft had stood was surprisingly little scar in the ground—nothing to see, in fact, but a pyramid of sand, which had run from the stuffed base of the well in its parting. Upon this we flung ourselves, scrambling and scraping like children about a burst sugar cask. We clawed, as badgers claw, throwing the draff behind us. A hole opened under our furious assault, and sunk, and deepened—and revealed nothing. We ran for the tools, and picked and dug like madmen. Presently Mr. Sant threw down his shovel.