Volume Two—Chapter Five.
A Tropic Shower.
When reflection again favoured the unfortunate man—which it did after a short time had passed over—his thoughts took a new turn.
He made no further attempt at climbing out. Repeated trials had fully convinced him of the impracticability of that; and he was now satisfied that his only hope lay in the chance of Quashie or some one else coming that way.
It is true that this chance appeared grievously doubtful. Even should one pass near the dead-wood, how was he to know that he, Smythje, was inside it? Who would suspect that the old tree was hollow? and, least of all, that a human being was inclosed within its cylindrical cell—buried alive, as it were, in this erect wooden sarcophagus?
A person passing might see the gun lying upon the ground outside; but that would be no clue to the whereabouts of its owner.
After all, some one might be passing, and as he could not be seen, his only hope lay in making himself heard.
The moment this thought came into his mind, he commenced crying out at the highest pitch of his voice.
He regretted that he had not done so before: since some one might have passed in the interim.
After falling in, he had shouted several times during the moments of his first surprise: but while making his attempts to clamber out, he had desisted—the earnestness of his exertions having reduced him to silence.