Then I knew the truth. I had fallen into a well which, dug right across the path, served as a man-trap to any traversing the tunnel with hostile purpose.
I shouted back to them to return to the house and get ropes.
“Can you hold on?” Reilly inquired.
“Not for long,” I answered, for the cold was already cramping my limbs, and in that blackness I dared not move, lest my grip should slip and I should sink. Near me water trickled; beyond that there was no other sound. The air, too, was bad, although, fortunately, it was not poisonous, as is so often the case in wells. The tunnel above was well ventilated, for in places the draught was quite strong, showing that at the end it was open to the air.
Above, my companions held consultation. There was but one lamp, and whoever went back would be compelled to take it. Reilly, being fleet of foot, sped away, leaving the skipper lying full length with his head peering over the edge of the abyss.
He tried to cheer me and keep up my spirits, but I knew from the tremor in his voice how anxious he was.
“Them swabs bridged this place over with planks,” he informed me. “But when they retired they drew back the boards after them. Keep up your pecker, doctor, Mr. Reilly will be back in a moment and we’ll soon haul you out.”
“I’m cold,” I said wearily.
“Don’t think of it,” came his cheery voice through the darkness. “You’re going to have a drop o’ grog hot when you come up. We can’t see you from up here. How far are you down?”
I guessed at about seventy feet, and told him so. But, of course, distances are very deceptive in the dark.