“Mind, mind!” he shouted. “Ah!”
For the lanthorn was once more darkened, but not by the candle being extinct. On the contrary, it was burning brightly still, but hidden by Vince drawing his jersey suddenly over the sides.
“It’s all right,” cried Vince, for there before him was the shape of the end of the passage marked out by a pale, dawn-like light. “Can’t you see? We’ve been fancying we’ve come down such a tremendous depth, and all the time we were right: the hole has led us to the shore.”
But Vince was not quite right, for, upon his drawing the lanthorn out—and none too soon, an odour of singed worsted becoming perceptible—they found that the sudden sharp slope of the granite flooring went down some twenty feet, and upon lowering the light by means of the rope the lanthorn came to rest in soft sand.
“It isn’t very light down there,” said Vince, whose feelings of nervousness were being rapidly displaced by an intense desire to see more; “but light does come in, and there’s the waves running in and out round here. You don’t want to go back now, do you?”
“No,” said Mike quickly. “Who’s to go down first?”
“I will, for I found out what it was.”
“All right,” said Mike; “but we shall want the rope. How are we to fasten it?”
“There’s plenty,” said Vince, “and we’ll go back and tie it round that last great stone in the hole.”
This was done, Mike lighting him; and then, upon their returning, the rope coil was thrown down.