“Run him farder away,” cried Wriggs, and he shuffled himself then to Panton just as the rift opened widely.
There was a quick rustling sound, and a dull thud as Panton was gripped hard—flesh as well as clothes, and swung over the sailor into comparative safety.
But it was at the man’s own expense, for he began to glide downward in a slow, gradual way, first his legs, then his body, till only his chest was visible as he dug his fingers into the ground and tried to hold on.
At such a time it might have been expected that the man would shriek out in agony and despair, slowly subsiding as he was into a rift which promised a death so horrible, that those who looked on were paralysed for the moment beyond affording help; but Billy Wriggs’ words did not indicate suffering or terror, only a good-hearted friendly remembrance of his messmate, for he shouted out as if by way of farewell,—
“Tommy, old mate, I leave yer my brass baccy-box.”
The words galvanised Smith into action. He had seized and dragged Panton away in time, but as he saw his companion sinking into the crack which grew slowly longer and wider, he stood with his eyes staring and jaw dropped till the words “baccy-box” reached his ears. Then he made a rush to where Wriggs’ head and shoulders only remained above ground, stooped quickly, and seized him by his thin garment, and held on, checking further descent and gazing wildly at his messmate, whose rugged features upturned to the red glow of light appeared to be singularly calm and placid.
“Steady, mate,” he said mildly. “Don’t tear my shirt.”
“Won’t I!” cried Smith, savagely. “Where’s that theer box?”
“Breeches’ pocket, mate.”
“That’s you all over,” snarled Smith, as his hands got a better grip, first one and then the other, and his voice sounded like an angry growl between his set teeth. “Promise—a chap—a box—and then—going to take it with yer. Yer would, would yer? But yer just won’t.”