“Every turning I come to, sir; but I’m sure now; I was in a bit of a doubt before—I haven’t been along here. It’s all fresh.”
“Turn back then,” said Gwyn.
“But the water’s running this way, sir, and it must be shallower farther on.”
“How do we know that?” cried Gwyn; “this stream may be rushing on to fill deeper places.” And as if to prove the truth of his theory, the water ran gurgling, swirling, and eddying about their legs, but evidently rising.
“Yes, sir, how do we know that?” said the man, who was rapidly growing more dazed and helpless. “I don’t kinder feel to know what’s best to be done with the water coming on like that. No pumping would ever get the better of this, and—and—”
He said no more, but leaned his arm against the side and rested his head upon it.
“Oh, come, that won’t do, Sam,” cried Gwyn; “we must help one another.”
“Yes, sir, of course; but wouldn’t one of you two young gents like to take the lead? You, Mr Joe Jollivet—you haven’t had a turn, and you’ve got two lights.”
“What’s the use of me trying to lead?” said Joe, bitterly, “I feel as helpless as you do—just as if I could sit down and cry like a great girl.”
“Needn’t do that, Jolly,” said Gwyn, bitterly; “there’s salt water enough here. I’m sure it’s three inches deeper than it was. Hark!”