“Good heavens!” cried the hermit; “it’s the boy whose sister was so kind to me. However did you—but never mind that now. Can you hold on for a time?”
“Yes, but my strength is almost gone.”
“Well, summon up all your courage. There is a farm house not far off. I’ll go there and get a rope and be back as quick as I can.”
Without wasting more words the old man hastened to his little cart. He had been out since dawn gathering herbs and roots and had taken a short cut home through the field in which the old well was located. Muttering excitedly to himself, he climbed somewhat stiffly into his rickety conveyance and urged his old horse forward with gently spoken commands. As the animal broke into a trot the little bell about its neck began to jangle not unmusically. This was the sound which, fortunately for him, had notified Roy that some human being was at hand.
In the near distance, half hidden in trees, could be seen the red-roofed gable of a farm house. Toward this old Peter Bell directed his way. Farmer Ingalls was only too glad, when he heard of the accident, to secure a long rope, used in hoisting hay to the top of his big barns.
“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed, “a lad tumbled into my well! Mommer,” turning to a motherly-looking, calico-clad woman, “you always told me to cover that well up, and I never did, and now thar’s a poor young chap tumbled into it.”
“Hurry,” urged old Peter Bell; “he was almost exhausted, poor lad. We must get back as quick as possible.”
Summoning his two hired men the farmer set off at a run across the fields, easily keeping pace with old Peter’s decrepit horse. As they neared the well they began shouting, and a feeble cry from the depths answered them.
“Cheer up, my lad, we’ll have you out of that in a brace-of-shakes,” cried Farmer Ingalls encouragingly, as they reached the curb and peered over into the dark hole.
“I hope you will,” cried Roy. “It’s getting pretty monotonous, I can tell you.”