“It’s deeper down than I thought for,” he said to himself, as he let the jug right down to the extent of the worsted thread, and then knelt down and reached as far as he could, but still without result.
“Stop a moment,” he said, pulling out his piece of line, “it’s lucky I didn’t leave go. Why, that worsted’s at least a dozen feet long.”
As he spoke he tied the end of the worsted to his piece of cord, and let the jug down lower still, to the extent of the cord as well, quite five yards more.
“Phew!” he whistled, as, with the cord round his finger, he reached down as far as he could; “I should have had a drop! and—hang it, there goes the jug!”
For at that moment the string suddenly became light, the worsted having parted; and as he knelt there, peering down into the darkness, the perspiration started once more from his forehead, and a curious sensation, as of a comb with teeth of ice passing through his hair, affected him while he listened moment after moment, moment after moment, till there came up a dull whispering splash from below, at a distance that was perfectly horrifying after the risk that Hilary had run.
So overcome was he by his discovery that he shrank away from the opening in the floor completely unnerved, and unable for a time to move. He was, in fact, like one who had received a stunning blow, and only after some minutes had elapsed was he able to mutter a few words of thankfulness for his escape, as he now thoroughly realised that he had uncovered an old well of tremendous depth.