“What—he says?” faltered Joe. “Then you can hear him shout?”
“You be quiet. Ahoy! Below there! Ketch holt o’ the rope. None o’ your games to frighten us. I know. Now, then, ketch holt and make it fast round yer.”
Joe stood there with his face ghastly, and his eyes starting, as, with his hands behind his ears, he strained to catch the faintest sound which came up as through a great whispering tube; but all he could hear was the splashing of the rope, and a deep low musical dripping sound of falling water.
“D’yer hear there!” roared Hardock, now savagely. “It arn’t right of yer, youngster. Shout something to let’s know where yer are.”
“He’s dead—he’s dead!” wailed Joe. “Let me go down and try and get him out.”
“Will you be quiet!” roared the man, fiercely. “D’yer want to stop me when I’m trying to save him?”
“No, no, I want to help.”
“Then be quiet. You only muddles me, and stops me from thinking what’s best to do. Below there! Pendarve, ahoy! Ketch holt o’ the rope, I tell yer!”
But he called in vain—there was no reply; and though he agitated the rope again and again, there was no other sound.
“There, now, let me go down. I must—I will go down, Sam.”