“Ay, perhaps he has escaped,” said Hardock, dismally.
“And if he has, do you think he will not bring us help? Why, it may come any time.”
“Yes, to the hole he got out of; and it’ll take five years to dig down through the solid rock to get us out. Nay, Master Gwyn, you may give it up. We’re as good as dead.”
A faint sound, half groan, half cry, arrested them; and Gwyn hurried to the crack up which Joe Jollivet had crawled.
“What is it? Can you get by?”
“No, no,” came back faintly, the words being half drowned by the noise of the wind; “stuck fast.”
“Oh, why did he grow so long and awkward!” muttered Gwyn. “Here, Joe, turn round a bit and try and come back on your side.”
“Been trying hard, and I can’t come back.”
Gwyn’s heart sank, and he hesitated for a few moments, till the piteous word “Help!” reached his ears, when he crept into the hole, leaving his lanthorn burning outside, sheltered from the current of air which rushed to the outlet, and began to crawl up as fast as he could.
“Help!” came again.