Sam Hardock at his Worst.
Gwyn tugged and strained at the block, hoping to dislodge it as he had the former one; but his efforts were vain, and at last, with his fingers sore and the perspiration streaming down his face, he backed down the steep chimney-like place, satisfied that Grip must have made his way through the narrow aperture beneath one corner of the block, where the wind rushed up, but perfectly convinced that without the aid of tools or gunpowder no human being could force a way, while the very idea of gunpowder suggested the explosion causing the tumbling down of the rock around to bury them alive.
“Well,” said Joe, looking up at him anxiously, with his face showing clearly by the open door of his lanthorn, “can we get farther?”
Gwyn felt as if he could not reply, and remained silent.
“You might as well tell me the worst.”
“I’m going to try again,” said Gwyn, hoarsely, and he glanced at Hardock, who was lying prone on the rock with his face buried in his hands. “The way’s blocked up.”
“Then we shall have to lie here till the water comes gurgling up to fill this place and drown us, if we are not smothered before.”
“We can’t be smothered in a place where there is so much air.”
“I don’t know,” said Joe, thoughtfully—his feeling of despair seeming to have deadened the agony he had felt; “I’ve been thinking it out while you were grovelling up there like a rat, and I think that the air will soon be all driven out of the mine by the water. Ugh! hark at it now. How it comes bubbling and racing up there! If you put your head over the edge of the rock there, it’s fit to blow you away, and it smells horribly. But can’t you get any farther up?”
“No, not a foot. Go up and try yourself.”