Oliver placed his lips close again.
“Keep your left foot on the edge and slide it along as we go.”
“But suppose it’s wrong way, sir?” suggested Smith.
“It can’t be,” cried Oliver again. “If you keep your left foot on the edge of the rock, every step must take us back toward the entrance.”
Smith tightened his grasp and began, but so clumsily, that at the end of ten minutes he slipped, fell, and gave so violent a jerk to Oliver’s arm that the latter nearly lost his hold, and, for a few moments, the sailor’s fate seemed sealed. For he lay motionless with both legs over the edge, while all Oliver could do was to hold on, with his heart beating heavily, and the roar of the cavern seeming to be multiplied a hundredfold. He could not shout, for his throat felt dry, but he knew that if he did, his voice would not be heard, and he waited till Smith recovered himself a little, then made a struggle, and managed with his companion’s help to get on his legs again.
Then the slow movement was resumed, with Oliver conscious of the exertion and shock by the twitching, beating sensation of the pulses in the sailor’s hand.
At last, after what seemed to be an endless length of time the sudden silence which fell upon them told them that they were somewhere about their resting-place, and drawing back from the edge of the little river, Smith sank down upon the lava with a groan.
“Oh, murder in Irish!” he said. “I thought I was gone, sir. I was feeling along with my left hoof, when my right suddenly give a slip on a bit of rock as seemed like glass, and there it was slithering away more and more. If you hadn’t ha’ held on, you might ha’ told ’em to sell off my kit by auction when you got back.”
“I thought you were gone too, Smith,” said Oliver, with a shudder.
“Yes, sir, it was werry ’orrid; and do you know, I fancy that’s where poor old Billy slipped and went down.”