“If it should take them a long time to find us?” It was young Carrington now.
“Water may stop altogether,” Trevanion stated. “Depends on the size of the vug. Anyway, it rises slower the more ground it covers. We’ll have time enough.” But no one could tell that.
Disappointment. Hope. Then the end of the drift stared them in the face—rock and dirt as a final blast had left it.
But “Here’s our raise,” said Trevanion, bluffly, turning off.
And the raise was ladderless: a vertical opening, whose hard rock walls were too slippery for even a Cornishman to climb. Trapped!
They looked at the place where the ladder should have been, as though it must, perforce, appear. Young Carrington ran a finger rapidly round inside his collar, as though it had grown suddenly tight. The air seemed close. Then he pulled himself together sharply. Say what you will, blood will tell.
“And now what?” he asked Trevanion, cheerfully.
Hastings’ eyes were looking the same question.
“Wait,” said Trevanion, stoically.
To wait, inactive: it is the real test of courage.