"Right-o!" sang out his uncle. "Steady on while I finish with the gear.... Now then, haul away!"
Peter began to haul in the line. It was heavy work, for at the other end was attached the baggage belonging to both men, Brian Strong's haversack with its precious contents being secured for safety within the folds of the blankets and sleeping-bag.
"Good thing the rope's new," thought Peter, carefully coiling away the line as he hauled it in. "If it did part half-way through there'd be a fine old lash-up!"
Presently an increased tension of the rope announced that the load was passing the narrowest part of the tunnel, which was about fifteen feet from the end. Then there was a sudden jam. Something had fouled, and the whole of the gear was wedged tightly, forming a formidable barrier between Peter and his relative.
In vain the former heaved and hauled. He could hear Uncle Brian plaintively inquiring when he would be able to crawl through.
"There's no help for it," decided Peter. "I'll have to go in again and clear the lash-up."
He did not relish the task, but it had to be done. The journey through had been bad enough, but now, although the distance was much shorter, he was additionally hampered by the fact that he was working in utter darkness and that the baggage, filling the height and breadth of the tunnel, considerably interfered with the air supply.
Peter realized the possibility of having to cast off the rope and remove each bundle separately—a task entailing at least half a dozen trips into the shaft.
Fortunately this was spared him; for on feeling cautiously, he discovered the cause of the "block". The rifle had come unhitched and, swinging round until the muzzle caught the projecting rock, had jammed the whole contraption. It was a fairly simple matter to release the rifle and drag it into the open. Then the rest of the gear was hauled out with comparative ease.
"All clear," shouted Peter again.