That fall racked him with agony, but, with sweat running down his face in little rivulets, he managed to grovel forward, inch by inch, pushing himself along by his legs, sparing his injured shoulder as much as he could. One foot, two feet, three feet. Then, suddenly, he realized that his head was hanging over an abyss—his shoulders were over—and in an instant he had pitched forward wildly, and fell shrieking into the darkness.
CHAPTER XXI
“C. Q. D.”
In the gray dawn of the winter morning, Mamie Welsh started wide awake from the restless doze into which she had fallen. She sat up in bed, her head to one side as though listening for some faint and distant sound. Then, with a quick movement, she threw back the bed-clothes, slipped to the floor, pulled a shawl about her, thrust her feet into a pair of slippers, and ran to the door of the room where her father and mother slept.
Mary Welsh, a light sleeper at all times, was awake at the first tap of Mamie’s fingers.
“Who’s there?” she called.
“It’s me, Mamie.”
“What’s the matter, dearie?” cried Mrs. Welsh, jumping out of bed and hastening to open the door. “What’s the matter?” she repeated, her arms about her daughter. “Not sick?” For Mamie’s face in the dim light was positively ghastly, so livid and drawn it was.
“No, I—I’m not sick,” sobbed Mamie, suddenly giving way and clinging desperately to her mother. “I—I don’t know what it is, only I’m so worried about Allan.”
And Mrs. Welsh, with a sudden tightening of the heart, understood.