With every stone removed, hope strengthened the little party; but as the explosions followed fast, and the flames began to flicker and play up the passage in which they were penned, Archy closed his eyes for a few moments to mutter a prayer, for his thoughts were getting wild.
Just then, he knew that some one else thought as he did, for a hand touched his arm, and a voice whispered,—
“It wasn’t my fault. It must have been Jemmy Dadd. I say—case they can’t make a way out in time—shake hands once, mate. I do like you.”
Something like a hysterical sob burst from the young midshipman’s breast at this; and, facing death as he was just then,—a horrible death which might follow at any moment,—the lad’s hand grasped that of his young gaoler—officer and smuggler, but both boys of one blood, who had fought each according to his lights.
“Hah!” sighed Ram, as he gripped hard, and then let go. “Now, then, tell ’em to shove the stones, sharp, and let ’em fall out. Quick! Before the powder ketches.”
“Powder?” said Archy in an awe-stricken whisper. “Yes; there’s a lot not far from the kegs.” The men cheered, as the fresh order was given, and a new set took the places of those who were growing weary, sending the stones out rapidly, till there was room for a man to creep through.
“Here, Ram, you through first, and show them how to climb on the shelf.”
“No, no, you lead, Mr Raystoke,” cried the master. “Silence, sir! I know what I’m doing,” yelled Archy. “Out with you, Ram.”
The boy went through like a rabbit, passing something dark before him, and then rapidly one by one the men followed, with the flames roaring horribly now below, and explosion after explosion following quickly, the cave rapidly becoming a reservoir of fire.
“Hurrah! That’s all,” cried Mr Gurr. “Now, Mr Raystoke.”