“No,” said Joe, slowly. “A bit ago I felt as if I could do anything to get out of this horrible place; but now I’m fagged, like Sam Hardock there, and don’t seem to mind much about it, except when I think of father.”
“Don’t talk like that,” cried Gwyn, passionately, “I can’t bear it. Here, we must do something; it’s so cowardly to lie down and die without trying to get out. You go up there, and perhaps you will do better than I did.”
“No; you tried, and you’re cleverer than I am.”
“No, I’m not. You try. You shall try,” cried Gwyn, with energy. “Go up at once. Stop; let’s put up a fresh candle.”
“It’s of no use; you can’t—I’ve been trying.”
“Joe! Don’t say there are no more candles.”
“Wasn’t going to. There’s one, but the wick’s soaked and it won’t burn.”
Gwyn snatched at the candle, examined the blackened end and sodden wick, and then turned it upside down, holding the bottom end close to the flame of his own light and letting the grease drip away till fresh wick was exposed and gradually began to burn.
“I should never have thought of doing that,” said Joe, calmly, as he lay on his chest resting his chin upon his hands.
“There,” cried Gwyn, sticking up the fresh candle in the tin sconce, and waiting till the fat around it had congealed. “Now you go on up, and see what you can do. Keep the door side of the lanthorn away from the wind.”