Working about into a sitting position, facing down the slope, with feet spread out, as though steering a sleigh, Wilson allowed himself to go. The rapidity with which he gained momentum startled him. Soon the gray damp walls were passing upward like a glistening mist. With difficulty he kept his feet foremost.
Meantime the voices from below had continued shouting. Onward he slid, and the sounds became clearer. At last the words came to him. They were, “The pipe! The pipe! Catch the pump-pipe!” Then Wilson suddenly recollected that the pipe was but half way down the slope.
Digging with his heels he sought to slow up, gazing first at one flitting wall, then the other. On the right a vertical streak of black appeared. He clutched with heels and hands, and sought to steer toward it. He swept nearer, and reached with outstretched hand. The effort swung him sideways, his fingers just grazed the iron, and twisting about, he shot downward head first at greater speed than ever. A moment after there was a chorus of shouts, a sharp cry in his ears, an impact, a rolling and tumbling, a second crash, and Wilson felt himself dragged to his feet.
About him, in a single flickering light, was a group of strange faces. While he gazed, dazed, rubbing a bruised head, all talked excitedly, even angrily.
“Why didn’t you hang on, you idiot?” demanded a voice.
“Who is it, anyway? It’s a stranger!”
“And a boy!” said another.
Wilson recovered his scattered wits, and quickly explained who he was and what he had come for. Immediately there was a joyful shout. “We’ll be out inside of an hour!” cried one.
“But how am I going to get up to the pipe?” demanded Wilson.
“We are cutting footholds up the incline.