“Then he must have fallen in.—Here, John Manning. Where is the lantern?”
“Tied to the first mule’s pack, sir.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Perry excitedly, and then he shouted “Father!” as loudly as he could, but the cry seemed to be driven back in his face.
“I’ll light a match, sir,” cried Manning, and after a few moments there was a flash, the gleam of a light, and the shape of the old soldier’s hands, with the tiny flame gleaming ruddily between his fingers; but, save that the boys saw the familiar rugged features of the man’s face for a few moments, they saw nothing more, and the darkness grew painful as the match went out.
John Manning struck another light, got the splint well in a blaze, and tossed it from him; but there was nothing to be seen but mist. The boys now shouted together, but without result, and a chilling sensation of dread came over them as they grasped each other’s wet cold hand, not daring to stir, and with the horrible feeling increasing upon them that some terrible tragedy must have happened to their leader.
Just when the sensation of horror was at its height, John Manning’s voice was heard.
“What had we best do, gentlemen—go forward or go back?”
“We ought to go forward,” said Cyril.
“Yes, that’s what I feel, sir,” shouted the man; “but next step may be down into the pit.”
“We must go on,” said Perry excitedly; “my father wants help. He’s in danger, I’m sure, or he would have made some sign.”