I saw him set his teeth, and then, as my uncle gave the word, he climbed up to a verdant cleft with Cross to cut four stout bamboos about six feet long to act as walking-staves.
“We must always be ready to feel our way and try the depth,” said Uncle Dick; “and avoid any holes. If it grows deeper as we go on and there is no bare rock at the sides, of course we must return.”
A few minutes later our guns were slung across our backs, the loads taken up, and, each armed with a staff, we made our start—Cross, as he held the lanthorn, asking leave to lead the way.
“We shan’t be able to do it, Master Nat,” whispered Pete, as we followed in turn, Pete last, for it was very hard work, the barrels of our guns scraping again and again against the roof during the first twenty yards or so; but Pete had hardly uttered the above words before I saw Cross raise the lanthorn higher. Then my uncle began to walk erect, and directly after I found on raising my staff that I could not touch the roof, while a sharp whistle uttered by our lanthorn-bearer was echoed from far on high.
“Plenty of room upwards, sir,” cried Cross.
“Yes,” said my uncle.
“Ugh! what a horrid place, Master Nat!” whispered Pete, who kept as close to me as he could. “Do mind, sir.”
“Mind what?” I said.
“The holes. If you step into one of them there’s no knowing how deep they are. They must be just like wells.”
“How do you know?” I said gruffly; and he was silent, giving me time to look to right and left and forward, as far as the light of the lanthorn would allow.