Little heed as I paid, at the moment, to what was going on or being said, yet it all impressed itself upon my mind, to be recalled afterward, and afterward I knew that this last observation of Mr. Rutledge’s was intended to exonerate father from any charge of carelessness in going into that place at just that time. But every employee of the Gray Eagle knew that Watkin’s Lateral—a long, diagonal passage, with which the main tunnel was connected by a number of side extensions—was a treacherous place in which to work at all times, and must, of necessity, have been trebly so this morning. Loosing my frenzied hold of old Joe, I crouched to the ground, while Joe sank down on the dump, covering his face with his gnarled old hands. “He made me tuck an’ put on his coat, he did, an’ tole me fur t’ start fur home; I was dat racked wid de misery in my back!” he moaned.
The men were again clustering about the shaft. I got up and went and stood beside them. A hollow roar came up from the depths into which we gazed. The black water had risen, and risen, until, touched by a ray of sunlight, it threw back at us a sinister, mocking gleam, as the eye of a demon might. And father was down there in that black grave! That was my one coherent thought as, after the first wild look, I suddenly grasped one of the ropes of the cage that still swung above the shaft’s mouth, and swung myself aboard. My reckless hand was on the starting lever when Mr. Rutledge, with a cry, and a spring as quick as my own had been, landed beside me. He snatched my hand from the lever. “Are you mad?” he asked, sternly, “What are you going to do?”
“I am going down to my father; I am going to bring him up!” I cried wildly.
As though the words had held a charm to break the spell of silence, they were followed by a babel of groans, of outcries and entreaties. It seemed that all the surface population of Crusoe were already on the spot; all, and especially the women, were wild to go to the rescue of the doomed men below. Doomed! Ah, they were past that now—all of them—all! It was this solemn thought that suddenly calmed me, that made me yield quietly to Rutledge’s guiding hand as he drew me from the cage. “There are men here,” he said. “Stand back, all of you women.” He took his place in the cage again; then he looked around on the assembled men.
“Dick,” he said, signalling out a square-built Scotch miner, “stand beside the hoist, and do exactly as I tell you.”
“I wull that!” returned the miner, taking the station indicated.
“I’m going down as far as the water will allow,” Rutledge explained. “Who comes with me?” A dozen men volunteered instantly. Rutledge selected two who stepped into the cage beside him.
“There may be fire-damp—gas,” the Scotchman said, warningly.
“I know; there is, probably; I’ll look out for that. Lower away!” Rutledge had lighted one of the miner’s candles which was suspended by a cord from a crack in the bottom of the cage. We above leaned over that dreadful well and watched the tiny flicker of light as the cage swung down and down toward the sinister eye that came steadily up as it went down. The tiny flame burned bravely for a space, then it went out as suddenly as if snuffed out by invisible fingers while the water below moved and sparkled as it might have done if the owner of the demoniac eye had laughed. “Choke damp!” said the Scotch miner succinctly, and began hoisting up.