“Right, sir,” roared Sergeant James.
“Now,” shouted Roby; “see him?”
“No; the water goes down here in a whirlpool, round and round, and I can feel it sucking at me to drag me below.”
“Yes, sir; I can feel it along the rope. Look at my arms,” growled the sergeant.
There was a quick glance directed at the sergeant, and those who were nearest could see that, while his arms jerked and kept giving a little, the rope was playing and quivering in the light.
“Can’t you see anything?” cried Roby wildly.
“Place like a big well ground in the rock,” came up in hollow tones; “the water all comes here, and goes down a great sink-hole. Shall I cut myself free and dive?”
“No!” came simultaneously, in a hoarse yell, from a dozen throats.
“Madness!” shouted Roby. “Look round again; he may be clinging to the rocks somewhere.”
Dickenson uttered a strange, mocking laugh, so loud and thrilling that it made his hearers shudder.