“Where are you, sir? This way.”
“Here! Who is it?” cried Oliver, hoarsely. “Smith?”
“Ay, ay, sir! Both on us. Me and Billy Wriggs. Hah! I got yer. Three cheers, Billy, and give it throat. Why, we began to think you was nabbed by the niggers or else drown dead.”
“Success to yer, sir,” came in a hoarse voice. “Wait till we gets him out, Tommy, and then we’ll cheer, ho!”
“Mr Panton—Mr Drew—the others?” cried Oliver, as he clung to the man who had grasped him by the arms.
“Oh, they’re all right, sir.”
“Nay, nay, speak the truth, Tommy,” growled Wriggs, whose hoarse voice sounded awful in the black echoing darkness.
“Don’t you be so nation tickler, Billy,” cried the other angrily. “Well, they aren’t quite all right, being as you may say regular washed out, but they’ve all alive ’o!”
“Far as we knows, sir,” interposed Wriggs. “But you step forrard, sir, and lets get out o’ this here waterworks’ pipe.”
“Is—is it far to the light?” asked Oliver.