Somehow, with the coming of daylight, the buoyant spirits of youth had returned to the boy and his predicament did not seem nearly so serious as it had during the dark hours.
But it was bad enough, as Roy realized. From time to time he tried shouting, but no one came to the edge of the well and peered over, although he anxiously kept his eyes riveted on the disc of sky above him. How long this went on Roy had no idea, but he had sunk into a sort of semi-doze when a sudden sound aroused him.
A tinkling, metallic sound, not unlike the rattling of the chain the night before that had, in reality, caused his trouble.
“Help! Help!” shouted Roy.
It was perhaps the five hundredth time he had uttered the cry since he had tumbled into the well. But this time there came a response.
“What is it? What’s the trouble?”
The voice sounded rather shaky, and as if the utterer of the words was somewhat scared.
“It’s a boy who has fallen into the well,” shouted Roy. “I’m almost exhausted. Get me out.”
A face suddenly projected over the well curb—a face which Roy recognized with astonishment as that of old Peter Bell, the hermit.
“Mr. Bell, it’s Roy Prescott,” he shouted; “can you get a rope and get me out?”