Chapter Fifty.
That cry was “help!” in its meaning as plainly as if it had come from a human throat, and with eyes hot and dry, Tom dashed forward with his worst fears confirmed.
The tree had been blown over by the storm, and he knew it now. It was the great pine whose roots overhung Pete’s cavern, and now the hollow which formed the entrance was filled up by the roots, the narrow passage closed, and at the bottom of a new pit formed in the sand, where the buried roots had been torn out and broken off, there was the dog, with jaws open, tongue out, and eyes starting, tearing away at the sand, which kept gliding back as fast as it was thrown out, evidently trying to rescue its master, who must have been buried there.
“Oh, you good old chap!” cried Tom, as he sprang to the side of the pit; and the dog, taking the words for encouragement, uttered a loud bark, and tore away at the sand with its fore feet and kicked it away with its hind at a tremendous rate, sending it flying in quite a mist.
Tom had grasped the situation thoroughly now, and felt that Pete must have been sleeping in his cave that night with his dog, when the tree, only held on one side, had given way, burying him. Then the dog had contrived to scratch its way out, leaving its master prisoned to lie there in darkness, while during all the next day and night the faithful companion for whom he had shown so little kindness had howled, and howled in vain, for help.
Tom saw it all now, and he sprang down into the hollow from which the pine roots had been torn, to begin cheering on the dog, and helping with all his might; till once more he turned cold; but it was with a far more terrible chill, as he felt that it was all those hours since Pete had been covered in. Worse, the position of the root indicated that one side had been driven right into the cave, the old roof, as it were, sinking down, and only one thing could have happened—the unfortunate occupant must have been crushed to death.
But the dog was animated by no such ideas. It knew that its master was below, and it panted, and growled, and snarled as it tore away at the sand.
Then a fresh idea struck Tom. He could do but little good; he must run for help, and bring men with shovels, a rope, levers, and an axe, for they would perhaps have to cut the unhappy prisoner free.
But no; he might be the means of the poor fellow losing his life if a spark still lingered. If he could only reach his face and uncover that before going for aid! And so he toiled on, scooping out the sand with both hands close by where the dog tore, for every now and then it buried its muzzle, snuffling and blowing, and raised it again to bark furiously.
“He knows,” thought Tom; and he tore away with all his might down there upon his knees, close at the side of the dog, to whom he uttered a cheering word of encouragement, accompanied by a pat on the back.