“Not it, sir. Clost here.”
“Speak the truth, Tommy, speak the truth,” growled Wriggs.
“You won’t be happy, Billy, till I gives you one on the nose. Well, sir, it aren’t so werry far, an’ fore long you’ll be able to see the light a shinin’ in, where Billy here stood up to his knees a ketchin’ on us all as we come down stream, and settin’ on us all in a row, on a bit of a shelf to dry a bit, ’fore we went any furder.”
“You helped, Tommy.”
“Well, yes, soon as I’d let about two barrels o’ water run out o’ me.”
“Speak the truth, Tommy.”
“Oh, well, one barrel, then,” cried Smith, angrily. “I’ll say half a pannikin, if you like. Yes, sir, I helped a bit, and counted us as we was ketched, and then as you didn’t come, Billy and me come arter yer and here yer are.”
“Which is the truth, Tommy, lad, so stick to that.”
They journeyed on till there was a faint dawn of light on ahead, which grew lighter and lighter as they waded forward, till the water, lava and pumice of the arched-over roof became visible. Then there was a hail which was answered, and at last in the twilight the figures of their comrades could be seen seated on the lava edge of the subterranean river, one standing in the middle, evidently gazing anxiously toward the inner portions of the cavern.
In all thankfulness hands were grasped, and then the party waded on, wash, wash with the rapid stream, now not knee deep. The light grew stronger and stronger, till at last there was a bright flash along the smooth water, a sharp bend was turned, and some hundred yards before them there was a low arch laced with ferns, opening out upon blue water and sunshine.