“Because I presume you will take some interest in seeing me succeed if I go on with the venture.”
“Oh! Well, yes, of course. Going to try now?”
“I am,” replied the Colonel. “Will you boys let down the leaden sinker? Be careful, mind. Will you hold the reel, Joe? and then Gwyn can count the knots as the line runs down.”
“All right, sir,” cried Joe; and the Major took his place by the wall to look on while, after stationing themselves, Gwyn counted three knots, so as to get a little loose line, then took tight hold and pitched the lead from him, letting the stout cord run between his finger and thumb, and counting aloud as it went down, stopping at thirty by tightening his grasp on the line.
“He’s wrong, father; thirty fathoms, and there’s no water yet.”
“Try a little lower, boy.”
The line began to run again, and there was a faint plash before half of another fathom had been reeled off.
“Not so very far out,” said the Major, as Gwyn went on counting and the reel turned steadily on, Joe turning one finger into a brake, and checking the spool so that it would not give out the line too fast.
On went the counting, the words coming mechanically from Gwyn’s lips as he thought all the while about his terrible fall, and wondered how deep down he had gone beneath the black water.
“Forty-seven—forty-eight—forty-nine—fifty,” counted Gwyn.