“What made you let go?” roared Tom, and his voice sounded hollow and unnatural as it resounded from the depths of his cool and shady retreat.
“Oh, Tom, have you got it? Have you really? Ain’t it cold? Are you hurt? Were you scared? Is the teapot broken?” were a few of the questions that came faintly to him from above and sounded very unlike angel whispers to the diver for teapots, who stood first on one leg, then on the other, to prevent equal cramp in both.
“Draw me up! You silly children! You goose of a Bess! Why don’t you draw me up?”
“We’re so tired?” called down Archie. “I helped to lower you with only one arm, but I can’t drag any more. My arm’s broken.”
“Bess! draw me up, I tell you!” screamed Tom from below.
“I will, Tom; I’m going to,” answered Bess, who now reached up and recovered the bucket, that had flown with a jerk to the top of the well-roof when it had been so suddenly abandoned.
But all the united efforts of Bess and Bob and Archie’s left arm could not raise Tom. After a desperate tug he was raised an inch, and suddenly lowered again. The result was a splash, a scramble below, and Tom’s voice sputtering incoherent invectives. Again and again the children tugged, and again and again Tom splashed, scrambled and sputtered.
At last a red, anxious face looked down to him, and Bessie’s voice, choked with tears, called out:
“Oh, Tom, do hold on till I call Maggie; we can’t get you up.”
Away ran Bess to call help, followed by Archie; but Bob, whose ideas on some points were as yet but feebly developed, seized one of the long poles, and began to poke at his brother with it, under the impression that some good would come of these unaided efforts.