_ CHAPTER FOUR. JOE HEARS A CRY
"Here, what's the good o' your shouting at me like that, my lad? Think things aren't bad enough for me without that?" cried the man, in an ill-used tone.
"You did not tie it properly."
"Yes, I did, lad, so don't go saying such a word as that. I made that rope fast round him quite proper."
"No, or it wouldn't have come untied. And you boasted as you did! Why, you've murdered him. Oh, Sam, Sam, Sam!"
"Will you be quiet?" cried the man, who was trembling visibly. "Don't you turn again' me. You were in the business, too. You helped, my lad; and if I murdered him, you were as bad as me."
"It's too cruel--too cruel!" groaned Joe.
"And you turning again' me like that!" cried Hardock. "You shouldn't run back from your mate in a job, my lad," said the man, excitedly. "I tied him up in the reg'lar, proper knot, and you calls me a murderer. Just what his father would say to me if I give him a chance. It's a shame!"
"We trusted you, both of us, because you were a man, and we thought you knew what was right!"
"And so I did know what was right, and did what was right; that there rope wouldn't have never come undone if he hadn't touched it. He must have got fiddling it about and undone it hissen. It warn't no doing o' mine!"
"Shame! Oh, you miserable coward!" cried Joe, starting to his feet now in his indignant anger.
"Mizzable coward! Oh, come, I like that!" cried Hardock. "Who's a coward?"
"Why, you are; and you feel your guilt. Look at you shivering, and white as you are."
"Well, aren't it enough to make any man shiver and look white, knowing as that poor lad's lying dead at the bottom of that big hole?"
Joe groaned, and took hold of the rope's end.
"How could he have undone the knot, swinging as he was in the air? You know well enough it was not properly tied."
"But it was!" cried Hardock, indignantly. "I tied it carefully mysen, just as I should have done if I'd been going down."
"Don't use that knot again, then," said Joe, bitterly. "I wish--oh! how I wish you had let me go down instead."
"What?" cried the man. "Why, you'd ha' been drowned i'stead o' he."
"I wish I had been. It would have been better than having to go to the Colonel to tell him--I can't do it!" cried the boy, passionately. "I can't do it!"
"Then come along o' me, my lad."
"Where?"
"I d'know. Somewheres where they don't know about it. We can't stay here and face it. It's too horrid. You can't face the Colonel and his lady. Ah! they're quite right; the mine is an unlucky one, and I wish I'd never spoke about it; but it seemed a pity for such a good working to go to waste. But they all say it's unlucky, and full o' all kinds o' wicked, strange critters, ghosts and goblins, and gashly things that live underground to keep people from getting the treasure. I used to laugh to myself and say it was all tomfoolery, and old women's tales; but it's true enough, as I know now, to my sorrow."
"How do you know?" cried Joe, angrily.
"By him going. It warn't he as undid the rope--it was one o' they critters, as a lesson to us not to 'tempt to go down. I see it all clear enough now."
"Bah!" cried Joe, fiercely, "such idiotic nonsense! Let me tie the rope round myself, and I'll go down and try and find him. I don't believe in all that talk about the mine being haunted. I've heard it before."
"Course you have, my lad. But let you go down? Nay, that I won't. Poor young Gwyn Pendarve's drownded, same as lots of poor fellows as went out healthy and strong in their fishing-boats have been drownded, and never come back no more. It's very horrid, but it's very true. He aren't the first by a long chalk, and he won't be the last by a many. It's done, and it can't be undone. But it's a sad job."
"Let me go down, Sam," pleaded Joe, humbly now.
"Nay, I'm too much of a mizzable coward, my lad. I don't want to leave you and lose you."
"But you wouldn't," cried the boy. "I should tie the knot too tight."
"I don't know as yer could tie a better knot than I could, Master Joe Jollivet. And even if yer could, yer wouldn't be able to make my hands feel strong enough to hold yer."
"I'm not afraid of that; and he must be brought out."
"I don't know, my lad, I don't know. If he is to be, it'll want a lot o' men with long ropes, and lanterns to courage 'em up; but it strikes me that when they know what's happened, yer won't find a man in Ydoll Cove as will risk going down. They all know about the horrors in the mine, and they won't venter. I didn't believe it, but I do now. There, the rope's coiled up, and I may as well go."
"To get help? Yes, go at once," cried Joe, excitedly; "I'll stay."
"Nay, yer won't, my lad. I'm not going to leave yer. I don't want to know afterward as yer chucked yerself down that hole, despairing like. You're going away with me."
"I'm going to stay till help comes to get poor Gwyn out."
Hardock shook his head.
"Go and tell them what's happened."
"I dursent," said the man, with a shiver.
"You go at once."
"What! and tell the Colonel his boy's dead? That I won't, my lad. He'd be ready to kill me."
"Go to my father, and tell him. He'll break the news to Colonel Pendarve; and you go on then to the village, to collect men and ropes."
"They wouldn't come."
"Oh, have you no feeling in you, at such a time?" cried Joe. "You are only thinking about yourself. You must--you shall go on. What's that?"
The boy started and stood staring wildly at his companion, for a faintly-heard cry reached their ears, and Hardock's face grew mottled, sallow, white, red and brown.
"Sea-bird," he said at last hoarsely, after they had waited for a few moments, listening for a repetition of the cry.
"I never heard a sea-bird call like that," said Joe, in a husky whisper. "It wasn't a gull, nor a shag, nor a curlew."
"Nay, it warn't none o' they," said Hardock, in a whisper. "I know all the sea-fowl cries. I thought it was one o' they big black-backed gulls, but it warn't that."
"Can you make out what it was, then?"
"Yes; it was something we don't understand, making joy because some one as it don't like has been drownded."
The boy felt too much startled and excited to pause and ridicule his companion's superstitious notions, and he took a few steps quickly to the rough, square wall, from a faint hope that the sound might have come from there; but as he touched the wall, a strong grip was on his shoulder.
"No, yer don't," growled Hardock. "You keep back."
"But that cry!" panted Joe.
"It didn't come from there. It was sea way."
"Yes; there it is again!"
Sounding more faint and distant, the strange cry floated from away to their left, and a strange thrill ran through Joe Jollivet, as he yielded to the man's hand, and suffered himself to be drawn right away from the mouth of the hole.
"Yes, I heard it," said Hardock, in a low tremulous voice, and with a look of awe, which accorded ill with the man's muscular figure. "Don't you know what it was?"
"No; do you? Could it be Gwyn calling for help?" The man nodded his head and spoke in a low mysterious whisper, as if afraid of being overheard.
"I dunno about calling for help, my lad; but it was him."
"But where--where?" cried Joe, wildly.
"Out yonder. We couldn't see 'em, but they must ha' come sweeping out of the pit there, and gone right off with him, like a flock of birds, right away out to sea."
"Oh, you fool!" cried Joe. "It's horrible to listen to you great big fishermen and miners with your old women's tales. If it's Gwyn calling, he must be somewhere near, I know. There's another shaft somewhere, and he's calling up that. Come and see."
"There aren't no other shaft, my lad," said the man, mysteriously. "It's what I say. You'll know better some day, and begin to believe when you've seen and heard as much as me. There's things and critters about these cliffs sometimes of a night, and in a storm, as makes your hair stand on end to hear 'em calling to one another. Why, I've knowed the times when--"
"There it is again," cried Joe, excitedly. "Ahoy!" he yelled. "Where are you?"
There was no answer, and the boy stood staring about him with every sense strained, listening intently; but no further sound was heard, and the man laid his hand upon the boy's arm.
"Come away, lad," he whispered, "afore ill comes to us. Didn't you hear?"
"I heard the cry."
"Nay, I meant that there whispering noise as seemed to come up out o' the pit. Let's go while we're safe."
"Nonsense! What is there to be afraid of?" cried Joe, impatiently. "Listen!"
"I don't know what there is to be afraid of, my lad; but there's something unked about, and the gashly thing's given me the creeps. Come away."
"Ah, there! Why, it's towards the cliffs. A cry!" Joe shouted, for, very softly, but perfectly distinct, there was a peculiar distant wailing cry. "It's all right, Sam. He's alive somewhere, and he's calling to us for help." _