For a few seconds every one stood still as if petrified by the horror of the scene. Then with a hoarse cry the captain dashed to the opening, slipped, and would also have gone down, had he not made a leap and thrown himself headlong across to the other side.
Mark stopped short, with a horrified expression on his face, for in those brief moments he suffered all the agony of having seen his father disappear, but almost before the captain had regained his legs the men uttered a warning shout, for there was the gurgling roaring below, a vibration in the earth, and the hot fountain played again to the height of twenty or thirty feet, descended almost as rapidly, and those on one side of the basin, as the water descended, saw the captain on the other side holding Billy Widgeon by the jacket, dragging him from the very edge of the hole to some half a dozen yards away.
The next minute all were gathered round where the little sailor lay apparently lifeless.
“Is he dead?” whispered Mark, catching at his father’s arm.
“Not he,” cried Small, stooping down and shaking the prostrate man. “Billy, old chap; here, wake up, I say! How goes it?”
Billy Widgeon opened his eyes, stared, choked, spat out some water, looked round, and shook his head to get rid of some more.
“Eh?” he said at last.
“How are you, my man?” said the captain.
Billy Widgeon stared at him, then looked all round, rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, stared again, rose, and trotted slowly to the basin, into which he stepped cautiously, and before he could be stopped peered down the hole.
He came away directly thereafter shaking his head.