“Yes, I know.” He made a pathetic effort to regain himself. “This light—don’t you feel it, Choseph?”
“I do, dear lad, but my name isn’t Choseph.”
“Yoseph!” he triumphantly said.
“Joseph,” I insisted.
“Mr. Tudor!” In a whirlwind he threw both arms round my neck, and softly laughed. The old Beelo was on guard again, except that with his recovered courage he was uncommonly gentle and affectionate. I wondered if I should ever reach the end of the boy’s phases.
From some indeterminate direction came the muffled sound of an explosion.
“Hold tight!” cried Christopher, violently lurching the raft round and jamming it sharply against high jutting rocks on the bank. “Down!” he added.
A mighty rush as of many winds came tearing up the passage far ahead. I threw Beelo face down, and flattened my body. Then came the blow, and hurled Christopher backward upon us. In a moment he had recovered himself. The impact must have strained Beelo’s ribs, but he lay still.
It was a combination of atmospheric concussion and hot gases, principally steam, that had struck us. I raised my head, gasping for breath. Beelo was inert. I lifted him. One arm feebly groped for my neck, and clung there.
“We are safe!” I cheerily said. “Where is my brave little brother?”