Joe lay with his eyes closed in the hot sunshine, glad of the darkness to shut out the horror of the scene around him; for the bright blue sky, with the soft-winged grey gulls floating round and round above their heads, and the far-spreading silver and sapphire sea, were dominated by the mouth of the horrible pit, from which with strained senses he kept on expecting to hear the faint cries of his companion for help.
But all was very still, save the soft, low hum of the bees busily probing the heath bells for honey in the beautiful, wild stretch of granite moorland, and the black darkness was for the unhappy boy alone.
For the knowledge was forced upon him that he could do no more. He felt that after the first minute Gwyn’s position must have been hopeless, and he lay there perfectly still now in his despair, when Hardock rose slowly, and began to haul in the line, hand over hand, coiling it in rings the while, which rings lay there in the hot sunshine, dry enough till quite a hundred-and-fifty feet had been drawn on, and then it came up dripping wet fully fifty feet more, the mining captain drawing it tightly through his hands to get rid of the moisture.
“Bad job—bad job!” he groaned, “parted close to the end—close to the end—close to the end—well, I’ll be hanged!”
He began in a low, muttering way, quite to himself, and ended with a loud ejaculation which made Joe sit up suddenly and stare.
“What is it?” he cried wildly. “Hear him?”
“Hear him? No, my lad, nor we aren’t likely to. But look at that.”
He held out the wet end of the rope, showing how it was neatly bound with copper-wire to keep it from fraying out and unlaying.
“Well,” said Joe, “what is it?”
“Can’t yer see, boy?”