The Perfect World: A romance of strange people and strange places

by Ella M. Scrymsour

When Alan recovered from the shock of the explosion, he found his lamp was still burning dimly, and felt that he had a dull ache in his legs. He was covered with débris from head to foot and stifling from the dust and powdered coal that was all about. With difficulty he extricated himself, and realized that Daniels was completely buried.

Alone in the little chamber, a feeling akin to superstition came over him, and he moved away from the silent form, now shrouded in coal. Scarcely realizing the hopeless position he was in, he leant back, and closing his eyes, his worn out nerves gave way, and he fell asleep. He woke up with a start some hours later; his watch had stopped and he had no idea of the time. Madness seemed to be coming over him; his face was flushed, his head throbbed. He was ravenously hungry, and crossed to the dead man’s side and searched about until he found the basket that contained Daniel’s untouched dinner, and the bottle of cold tea. There was not a great deal of food—half a loaf, several thick slices of beef, a piece of cheese and some homemade apple tart.

Alan ate sparingly, for although his stomach clamoured for more, he realized that not yet was his greatest hour of need, and that later on he would need the food still more.

When he had finished, he took up a pick and wildly struck at the blocked exit, but only the echoes replied, laughing at his impotence. Flinging his tool down he buried his head in his hands and sobbed in bitter despair. His convulsive outburst left him calmer, and he began for the first time to think out a plan of escape. He knew that rescue parties would be working hard for his release—but could they reach him in time?

There was around him a death-like stillness, and he realized that the buried cavern was far from the bottom of the shaft. Then he suddenly wondered where the air came from. There must be an inlet somewhere, he thought, for the air he was breathing, although stuffy, was quite pure. He walked round the walled up chamber—round and round—but there was nowhere a weak spot. He sat down and tried to think coherently, and laughed aloud in his agony, as he wondered whether he would go mad. He looked up suddenly, and in his weakness imagined that the roof was trying to dance with the floor. He tottered round the place, hardly able to keep his feet in his wild fancy that the floor was moving, and laughed hysterically as he knocked against a jutting piece of coal, and thought the roof had got him at last. Then he quieted a little, and in the semi-darkness the dead figure of Daniels seemed to rise from the place where it lay, and point at him a menacing finger.

In terror, Alan backed to the further side of the little chamber, his eyes distorted, his limbs trembling. He watched the figure come nearer—nearer—its long claw-like fingers were almost on his flesh—“Ah!” he shrieked—the fingers were touching him with a cold, slimy touch. He felt impelled to move forward—with the forefinger of the dead man pressed to his forehead. He walked fearfully onward—then his overwrought brain gave way entirely, and with another wild shriek, he fell to the floor in merciful unconsciousness.

When he recovered, his dimmed senses hid from him much of the past. His fever had abated, but he longed for water. His mouth was parched. He crawled feebly to the basket where the dead Daniels had kept his food, and drew out the bottle of tea. There was very little left, but enough to take away the first keen edge of his thirst. A torn newspaper that had been used to wrap up some of the food rustled slightly. It startled him and he looked round nervously. Again it moved, and seemed to be lifted up by some unseen hand.

He watched it fascinated, then suddenly his face lighted up. “A draught,” he cried triumphantly. “Then it is from that direction I must try and secure my release!” With renewed energy he began to pick at the coal, in the fast dimming light of his lantern. Tirelessly he worked, until success met his efforts and he had made a hole big enough to crawl through, whence came the sound of rushing waters.

He lifted his lantern above his head in his endeavour to discover where he was, and its feeble rays shone upon a swiftly flowing, subterranean river that disappeared through a tunnel on either side. The place he was in was very small and had no outlet except by way of the water.

The river was narrow, perhaps four feet wide at the most, but with a current so strong that Alan, good swimmer though he was, would not have dared trust himself to its cruel-looking depths. Mechanically he dropped into the water a lump of coal. There was a slight splash—but no sound came to tell him that it had reached the bottom. He felt in his pockets, and found half a ball of string. Tying a piece of coal to one end he dropped it into the rapids, but his arm was up to his shoulder in the river, and yet the coal had not touched the bottom.