“Well,” said Dickenson, breaking the silence as all about him stood breathlessly listening for the next sound, “I’m rather glad that wasn’t I.”
“Attention!” cried Captain Roby angrily as two or three of the men burst into a half-smothered guffaw. “Who has a match?”
“I have,” said Dickenson, striking a wax vesta as he spoke, the bright flash being followed by the feeble little taper flame; “but it’s nearly the last. Bring that lantern here.”
There was a quick response, the bearer opening the door with fumbling fingers, and as he held the rapidly burning-down match Dickenson drew the pricker from his belt, held the light close, and began to operate on the wick of the little lamp inside the lantern.
“Only slipped down,” he said. “Wick was too small. Hold the lantern still, man. That’s better. I shall get it up directly.”
The scratching of the sharp steel point sounded quite loudly on the socket of the lamp as the wick kept eluding the efforts made, and the faint light threw up the grim faces around in a strangely weird way, while not another sound was heard but the hissing rush of the water far below, till suddenly there was a sharp bang, the lantern was nearly knocked out of its holder’s hand, and Dickenson yelled, “Oh Gemini!”
They were in utter darkness once more.
“Bah!” cried Roby. “How careless!”
“Burned down to my fingers,” said Dickenson coolly out of the black darkness. “Do you know, I don’t believe a bullet going into you hurts a bit more than being burned like that.”
“For goodness’ sake strike another match, Mr Dickenson,” cried the captain angrily.