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Sappers and Miners; The Flood beneath the Sea, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 33. Man's Good Friend |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. MAN'S GOOD FRIEND Gwyn tried hard to cry aloud to his companion for help--to make an effort for life; but for what seemed to him to be a long space of time he could not stir. At last, though, when he could bear the horror no longer, and just as the creature moved as if gathering its legs beneath it like some cat about to spring, the boy made a sudden heave, and threw the beast from his chest, at the same time struggling to rise and make for where he felt that Joe was lying; but with a strange, hollow cry the animal sprang at him with such force that he was driven backwards, while the creature regained its position upon his chest, and Gwyn lay back half paralysed. But not from fear. Astonishment and delight had that effect, and, weak and prostrated as he was for some moments, he could not speak. At last one word escaped from his lips, and in an instant--_throb, throb, throb, throb_--there was a heavy beating on his ribs, a joyous whining sound greeted his ears, and a cold nose and wet tongue were playing about his face. "Oh, Grip! Grip! Grip!" he sobbed out at last, half hysterical with excitement; and seizing the dog by the neck he held him fast, while Grip burst now into a frantic paroxysm of barking. "You good old dog, then you have found us," cried Gwyn, as he sat up now and held on tightly to the dog's collar, for fear he should be left again. "Why, there must be someone with him! Here, Grip, Grip, old chap, your master! Where is he, then?" There was another frantic burst of barking, and Joe's voice was heard out of the darkness. "What's that? What does it mean? Hi! Ydoll, are you there?" "Yes, yes. Here's Grip! And--and--they must be--Oh, Joe, Joe, I can't--" What it was that Gwyn Pendarve could not do was never heard, for he pressed his lips together and clenched his teeth to keep back all sound. He had no longer any control over himself, and in those anguished moments he felt, as he afterwards declared to himself, that he was acting like a girl. Joe was nearly as bad, but it was in the darkness and there was no one to witness their emotion, as he too kept silence, fearing to hear even his own voice; so that Grip had the whole of the conversation to himself--a repetition that at another time would have been monotonous, but which now sounded musical in the extreme. At last Gwyn recovered his equanimity to some extent, and, taking out the matches, struck one, but the moisture of his fingers prevented it from igniting, and he had to try two more before he could get anything but soft phosphorescent streaks on the box; and as the damp matches were thrown down, Grip sniffed at them and whined loudly. Then one flashed out brilliantly, lighting up the darkness, was watched excitedly, and began to blaze up and transfer its illuminating powers to the one candle the boys had left, one which was directly after safely sheltered by the glass of the lanthorn. At this point the joy of the dog was unbounded, and was shown in leaps, bounds and frantic barking, accompanied by rushes and sham worryings of his master's legs; and when driven off, he favoured Joe in the same way. "Only to think of it," cried Joe, "that dog following us and running us down in the dark! How could he have done it? I never heard that dogs could see in the dark like cats." "They can't," said Gwyn, going down on his knees to give the dog a hug. "A jolly old chap--they see with their noses; don't you, old Grip?" "_Whuf_!" cried the dog; and he made a frantic effort to lick his master's face. "It's wonderful!" cried Joe, excitedly. "Yes, makes a fellow wish he had a nose like a dog. Why, Jolly, we could have found our way out, then." "Don't see it," said Joe, who was in a peculiarly excited state, which made him ready to laugh or cry at the slightest provocation. "Don't see it! Of course you don't. Couldn't we have smelt our way out by our own track, same as he did? But bother all that. Why, Jolly, if I could only feel sure that the dads were safe out, I shouldn't care a bit." "No; I shouldn't either. Oh, I say, isn't it a relief?" "Yes, and so I feel all right. They're out: I'm sure of it." "How do you know?" "By Grip being here." "That doesn't prove it." "Yes it does. I know! Father said, 'I'll send Grip down; he'll find them.'" "Well, it does sound likely; but I say, Ydoll, isn't it queer?" "What, being here?" "No; while I was so miserable and feeling as I did, I was only faint; now I feel so hungry I could eat anything." "Same here," said Gwyn; "but it's all right; they're out; father sent Grip--didn't he, Grip?" The dog barked loudly and leaped up at him. "There, hear him? He understands," cried Gwyn; but Joe shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "The dog found us right enough, but that doesn't prove that he'll find his way back." "He'd better," said Gwyn with mock earnestness; "if he doesn't we'll eat him. Do you hear, sir?" The dog barked again. "It's all right," said Gwyn, merrily. "Now then, pack up, and let's go home--do you hear, Grip?" The dog threw up his head and barked loudly. "Ready, Joe?" "Ready--of course." "Come on, then. Now, Grip, old fellow, lead the way. Go home!" The dog barked again, and trotted in the opposite direction to which they had expected, making for the partly driven gallery where the roof ran up, showing how the lode of tin had ascended; and when he reached the blank end beginning to bark loudly. "Come back, stupid!" cried Gwyn; "we found that out ourselves. That's the end of the mine. All right. Now, lead the way home." But the dog barked again loudly; and it was not until Gwyn followed to the end and seized his collar that he gave up. "Now then, off with you, but don't go too fast. Forward! Quick march!" The lad had straddled across the dog, holding him between his knees, with head pointed as he believed in the direction of the shaft; and at the last sound he unloosed him from the grip of his knees, and the dog started steadily off, and they followed, but in a few minutes had to take to running, for, after looking back several times to see if he was followed, Grip increased his pace, and directly after disappeared in the darkness beyond the glow shed by the lanthorn. "You've done it now," cried Joe. "Why didn't you make your handkerchief fast to his collar? He's gone home." "Think so?" said Gwyn, blankly. "Yes; that's certain enough; and we're just as badly off as ever." "No," said Gwyn, in a tone full of confidence; "Grip found us, and he'll come back again for certain." "But we shall have to stop where we are, perhaps for another day or two." "Oh, no, he will not be long," said Gwyn; but there was less confidence in his tones, and he stopped short, and began to call and whistle, with the sounds echoing loudly along the tunnel-like place; but for some moments all was silent, and Joe gave vent to a groan. "Oh, why did you let him go, Ydoll? It was madness." "Well," said the lad, bitterly, "you were as bad as I--you never said a word about holding him." "No, I never thought of it," said Joe, with a sigh. "But how horrid, after thinking we were all right!" "Yet it is disappointing," said Gwyn, gloomily; "but he'll soon come back when he finds that we are not following him; and even if he went right back to them, they'd send him in again." "I don't believe they did send him in," said Joe, despairingly. "They must. He couldn't have climbed down the ladders or got into the skep of his own accord, and, if he had, they wouldn't have let him down. They sent him, I'm sure." "No, I'm afraid not," said Joe, piteously; "they didn't send him." "How do you know?" "Because if they had, they would have done what people always do under such circumstances--written a note, and tied it to the dog's collar. He had no note tied to his collar, I'm sure." "No, I didn't see or feel any," said Gwyn, thoughtfully. "No; we should have been sure to see it if he had one; so, for certain, the dog came of his own will, and I don't think it's likely he'll come again. He may or he may not." Gwyn did not feel as if he could combat this idea, for Joe's notion that a note would have been tied to the dog's collar--a note with a few encouraging words--seemed very probable; so he remained silent, listening intently for the faintest sound. But the silence was more terrible than ever, and, saving the musical dash of water from time to time, and an occasional rustle as of a few grains of earth or sand trickling down from the walls, all was still. "Hear him coming back?" said Gwyn, at last, very dismally. "No, but there is something I keep hearing. Can't you?" "I? No," said Gwyn, quickly. "What can you hear?--footsteps?" "Oh, no; not that. It's a humming, rolling kind of noise, very, very faint; and I can't always hear it. I'm not sure it is anything but a kind of singing in my ears. There, I can hear it now. Can you?" Gwyn listened intently. "No. Perhaps it is only fancy. Listen again. Oh, that dog must come back." Joe sat down, with the lanthorn beside him. "Oh, don't give up like that!" cried Gwyn. "Let's make a fresh start, and try and find our way out." "It's impossible--we can't without help." "Don't I always tell you that a chap oughtn't to wait to be helped, but try to help himself?" "Yes, you often preach," said Joe, dismally. "Yes, and try too. Why, I--Ah! hear that?" cried Gwyn, excitedly. "No," said Joe, after a pause. "Don't be so stupid! You can--Listen!" They held their breath, and plainly now came the barking of a dog. "There!" cried Gwyn. "Here, here, here!" and he whistled before listening again, when there was the pattering of the dog's nails on the rocky floor, and almost directly after Grip bounded up to them. "Ah, we mustn't have any more of that, old fellow," cried Gwyn, seizing the dog's collar, and patting him. "Get on, you old rascal; can't you see we've only got two legs apiece to your four?" The dog strained to be off again, barking excitedly; but Gwyn held on while their neckerchiefs were tied together, and then fastened to the dog's collar. "Now, then, forward once more. Come on, Joe, you must carry the lanthorn and walk by his head. Steady, stupid! We can't run. Walk, will you? Now, then, forward for home." The dog barked and went off panting, with his tongue out and glistening in the light as the red end was curled, and he strained hard, as if bound to drag as much as he could behind him, while the boys' spirits steadily rose as their confidence in the dog's knowledge of the way back began to increase. _ |
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