With these words he departed.
Seated on the log, Bart looked down, watching Pat’s descent. They had climbed about half way up the pit, and Pat had about fifty feet to go down. Looking down, it was dark, and Pat at length disappeared from view. Bart could only hear him as he moved about. At length there was a deep stillness. Bart grew alarmed.
“Pat!” he called.
No answer came. “Pat!” he called again.
Still no answer.
“Pat!” he called, as loud as he could, for he was now thoroughly frightened. As he called, he put his feet over, and prepared to descend.
“I’m here,” Pat’s voice came up. “Don’t come down. I’m coming up.”
These words filled Bart with a feeling of immense relief. He now heard Pat moving again, and at length saw him ascending. Nearer he came, and nearer. But Bart noticed that he did not have the pickaxe. He feared by this that it had been buried beneath the fallen logs. If so, their situation was as desperate as ever. But he said not a word.
Pat at length reached the place where Bart was, and flung himself down, panting heavily. Bart watched him in silence.
“The pickaxe is buried,” said he at length, “I suppose.7’