The Vast Abyss

The fear was only momentary. Then he was searching again, and this time easily touched the face, which was quite clear of sand, the roots above striding over it, so to speak, and, as he felt upward, proving to be some inches distant.

But the face was cold and still, and despair crept over the worker again. He fought it back though, tore away at the sand, and at the end of a few minutes had cleared an opening like a rabbit burrow, which he could see led right to the roots and must convey air.

Then with a tremendous burst of barking the dog made a plunge to get in, half filling the burrow before Tom could hold it back, when the intelligent beast stood with its tongue out, panting heavily, and seeming to question him with its eyes.

Tom thought for a moment, then he took off his neckerchief, pulled out his pocket-book, and tore out a leaf of paper, one side of which was covered with the names of the moon’s craters.

“Come away,” he cried to the dog, as he carefully stepped out on to the firm ground, the dog barking excitedly, but following him.

“Must stop and keep the hole open,” thought Tom; and then, laying his paper on a tree-trunk, he wrote clearly: —

“Follow the dog to the fir-wood. Pete buried in sand. Bring help, shovels, axes, ropes.

“T.B.”

He rolled this in his neckerchief, tied it round the dog’s neck, and then stood pointing homeward.

“Go home!” he shouted; “fetch – fetch! Go home!”

The dog made no sound, but went off at a long loping gallop, Tom watching it till it was out of sight, and then cautiously creeping back into the hole to scoop away some of the sand which lay heaped round the burrow, to keep watch by one who he felt sure was dead.

All Pete’s short-comings were forgotten as Tom sat there, feeling that he dare do no more for fear of loosening the sand, and bringing it trickling down like so much water; all he could think of then was, that a fellow-creature lay buried close to him mutely asking for help, and he wanted to convince himself that he had done everything possible in the way of giving that aid.

It was a difficult matter to mentally decide, and there were moments when he felt that he ought not to have trusted to the dog, but should have gone himself, for a dozen things might prevent help coming, even if the dog proved to be a trustworthy messenger.

So strong was this idea, that three times over he was on the point of starting off to run back; but each time just as he was rising, the sand came trickling down in a way which showed how soon the burrow would be closed up; and without air, now that the place had been opened, he felt that the last chance would be gone.

So Tom settled himself down to keep the burrow clear, trembling at times as he listened, faintly hoping that the words he spoke now and then might elicit a reply.

But he hearkened in vain, all was solemnly still save the calls of the birds, and the rustling made by the rabbits as they chased each other in and out among the pines. By and by a squirrel came racing up, caught sight of him, sprang to the nearest tree-trunk, dashed up it, and then out upon the first big horizontal bar, where it sat twitching its beautiful tail, scolding him angrily for intruding in what it looked upon as its own private property.

After a time too there was the cheery call of the nuthatch, and the busy little bird flitted into sight, to alight upon a pine-trunk, and begin creeping here and there, head up or head down, peering into every crack, and probing it in search of insects. A flock of jays, too, came jerking themselves into the tree-tops, displaying their black and white feathers, the china-blue patches upon their wings, and one in particular came quite near, setting up its soft loose crest, and showing its boldly-marked moustachios as it peered with first one light-blue eye, then with the other, at the motionless object seated in the sand-pit, wondering whether it was alive.

Tom saw all these things that morning, for in his excited state they were forced upon him, though all the time he seemed to be following his messenger through the wood, keeping up its long steady canter; now diving between two closely-growing trees, now bounding over a clump of bracken, and now seeming to catch one end of the neckerchief in a strand of blackberry thorn, at which the dog tugged till the silk was torn and freed. Again he saw the dog caught in this fashion, and soon after watched it reach the edge of the wood and bound down into the lane, where it soon after encountered a gipsy-like party, who caught sight of the dog’s strange collar, and sought to stop it, and steal the letter, for which the dog fought fiercely, and finally escaped by leaping back into the wood and disappearing entirely, so that he could trace it no more.

All imagination, but as real to him as a troubled dream, till he stooped once more to clear the opening, and gaze in, shuddering, and afraid to break the awful stillness around.

Then he crouched again upon his knees to listen, and wonder whether the dog had reached Heatherleigh yet. Next whether it would ever have the intelligence to make its way there, and if it did, whether it would not pretty surely be chased away by David, who would for certain be the first to see it, and begin throwing stones.

“I wish I had thought of that before,” muttered Tom despairingly; and as the time went on he despaired more and more of seeing the long-looked-for help arrive. For he told himself that he had been mad ever to dream of the dog proving a successful messenger, since, according to his calculation at last, there had been ample time for the journey to have been made thrice over.

It was of no use to shout for help or to whistle, for nobody ever came through these woods, save a poacher now and then by night, to set wires or traps for the rabbits; and at last in despair Tom felt that he must go.

Then hope came once more, as he thought better of the dog, for what greater intelligence could dumb beast have shown than, after struggling out of the cave, to have made its way not to its regular home, where it could only have appealed to the feeble old grandmother, but straight to one whom, though no friend, it had seen more than once with its master?

“See,” he said to himself, “how, in spite of all driving away, the poor thing kept on coming back to the cottage, and how wonderfully it led me here, and worked by my side. He’ll do it. I’m sure he will, and before long I shall see uncle coming.”

Then the time wore on, till these hopes were dashed again, and a despairing fit of low spirits attacked the watcher. “It’s of no use,” he said, half aloud; “I must go;” and he bent over the still open hole, to try and think out some plan of keeping back the sand. But all in vain; he felt that there was no way. Either he must stop there to keep on scooping the place free every few minutes, or leave it to take its chance while he went for help.

“No, I can’t,” he cried; “it’s throwing away the very last hope. I must stay. Oh, why does not some one come?”

Tom’s face darkened now, for his over-strained imagination had painted a fresh picture – that of the miserable-looking cur somewhere close at hand, settled down in a hollow to deliberately gnaw the sandy bone. For it was too much to expect of a dog that, after perhaps starving for eight-and-forty hours, it would leave the meal for which it hungered, and go and deliver such a message as that upon which it was sent.

“Oh, how long! how long!” he groaned. “I could have gone there and back half-a-dozen times.”

It was a moderate computation according to Tom’s feelings, for it seemed to him half the day must have glided by in the agony he was suffering.

But it had not. Time had been going steadily on at its customary rate, in spite of the way in which the lad in his excitement had pushed on the hands of his mental clock.

“I must go,” he cried at last, “or no help will come. That brute is somewhere close by, I’m sure. Here, hi!” he shouted; but there was no reply – no dog came bounding up; and after listening for a few minutes he began to whistle loudly, when his heart seemed suddenly to stop its beating as he leaned forward listening, for, faint and distant but quite clear, there came an answering whistle.

He whistled again, and he pressed his hand upon his breast, feeling half choked with emotion.

The signal was answered, and directly after there was a distant hail, followed by a joyous barking, and the dog came bounding up, to rush down into the hollow, thrust its sharp nose into the burrow, take it out, begin barking again, and then dash off once more among the clustering pine-trunks.

Tom whistled again, then hailed, was answered, hailed again, and sank down half choked by the emotion he felt, and hard pressed to keep back a burst of feeling which tried to unman him.

“This way! ahoy!” he yelled, as he leaped up out of the hole, himself once more. “Quick! help! ahoy!”

Then the dog tore up barking furiously, half wild with excitement, and directly after Tom caught sight of the Vicar, closely followed by his uncle; and then came David with a bundle of tools over his shoulder, followed at a short distance by the village bricklayer, the carpenter, and two more men.

At this a peculiar giddy feeling came over the watcher, there was a strange singing in his ears, and he stood there as if stunned.

Chapter Fifty One

“Where is he?” cried Uncle Richard. “Yes, I see!”

The words brought Tom back to himself, and he was as active again as the rest, his strange seizure having lasted only a few moments.

“Heaven grant that we are not too late!” said the Vicar. “Here, Tom, you had better keep the dog back.”

“But you are sure some one is buried here?” said Uncle Richard.

“Yes; it is Pete Warboys – he has a kind of cave here. It’s crushed in,” Tom hastened to explain.

“If we try to dig him out we shall suffocate him,” cried Uncle Richard, speaking as if he had no doubt of the boy living still. “Look here, carpenter – David, there is only one way: three of us must be here with a rope fastened to this great root, and three others must work at a branch yonder. We shall have great leverage then, and we may be able to turn the trunk right over.”

“Want a screw-jack, sir,” said the carpenter.

“We must make screw-jacks of ourselves,” cried Uncle Richard. “You, David, take the axe and lop off a few of the branches that will be in our way; you, carpenter, saw off three or four of these roots as closely as you can; Tom, keep the hole open; Mr Maxted, keep the dog out of the way; I’ll make fast the ropes.”

Every one went to work at once as Uncle Richard fell back into his old way when he was a planter with a couple of hundred coolies under him, and acre after acre of primeval forest to clear before he could begin to cultivate the ground.

Then the dog barked furiously for a few moments, but at a word from Tom crouched panting with its tongue out and ears pricked, evidently satisfied with the efforts being made to release its master. The strokes of the axe fell thick and fast, the saw rasped through the wood, and dust and chips flew, while the forest echoed to the sounds of busy work.

Best part of an hour’s hard toil, and then one side of the tree was fairly clear; the ropes were tied to root and branch projecting at right angles, and the ends passed round tree-trunks.

“Now then!” said Uncle Richard. “Ready?”