But the faint tapping ceased only at intervals, and, once in a long while, a scarcely perceptible thud could be heard.
Tom crept back to Bennie, and tried to speak cheeringly, as they lay and listened.
But the blind boy’s limbs had grown numb, and his head very heavy and painful. His utterance, too, had become thick and uncertain, and at times he seemed to be wandering in his mind. Once he started up, crying out that the roof was falling on him.
Hours passed. Echoing through the fall, the sound of pick and crowbar came, with unmistakable earnestness.
Tom had tapped many times on the wall, and was sure he had been heard, for the answering raps had reached his ears distinctly.
But they were so long coming; so long! Yet Tom nursed his hope, and fought off the drowsiness that oppressed him, and tried to care for Bennie.
The blind boy had got beyond caring for himself. He no longer heard the sounds of rescue. Once he turned partly on his side.
“Yes, Mommie,” he whispered, “yes, I see it; ain’t it pretty!” Then, after a pause, “O Mommie, how beautiful—how beautiful—it is—to see!”
Tap, tap, thud, came the sounds of rescue through the rock and coal.