Chapter Eleven.
The Sea Palace.
For a few moments neither of the boys spoke, but stood listening to the dull roaring sound. Then Vince started, for he felt himself touched; and he nearly uttered a cry of horror, but checked it by setting his teeth hard as he grasped the fact that the touch came from Mike’s hand, which he seized and found to be cold and damp.
“Let’s get back—quick, somehow,” gasped the lad.
“Yes: come on. We can feel our way,” replied Vince. “Keep hold of hands. No, that would make it harder. Here, give me a piece of the rope, and I’ll put it round my waist, then you can hold on by that and follow me. I think I can recollect exactly how it goes.”
“Be quick!” said Mike, in an awe-stricken whisper, as he passed several yards of the rope to his companion in misfortune; and this Vince fastened round his waist, and then uttered an ejaculation.
“What is it?” cried Mike: “don’t say something else is wrong.”
“Wrong? No,” cried Vince, whose hands had come in contact with the creel: “I forgot the tinder-box.”
“Ah!” cried Mike joyfully; and he pressed close to Vince, as the latter sat down, took out the box, and began nicking away with the flint and steel, making the scintillating sparks flash and send their feeble light in all directions.
“Oh, do make haste!” panted Mike; “that dreadful roaring’s coming nearer.”