Chapter Forty Two.
A Lonely Vigil.
Oliver was too much startled for a few moments to move or speak. Then making an effort to master his dread, “It’s an Irish echo,” he said. “Poor Wriggs, he is making his way towards me. Ahoy! this way.”
“Comin’ sir,” came plainly enough now, but directly after every echo seemed again blurred and confused like a picture reflected in agitated water. But the sound was certainly very near, and each shout and answer came closer, till at last the man’s steps were plainly heard in a slow shuffling fashion, as he evidently carefully extended one foot and then drew the other up to join it.
“Where are you?” cried Oliver at last, for the steps were now very close, and his voice, like the man’s, sounded strange and confused by the repetitions from roof, wall, and water.
“Clost here!”
“Hold out your hand,” cried Oliver, as he extended his own. “Ha! That’s good,” he said, with his heart leaping for joy at the warm strong grasp he received. “Thank Heaven you are safe!”
“Thank-ye, Mr Oliver Lane, sir. But my word it are black, Hold of a coalin’ screw’s nothing to it.”