Rapid as was the pitch, and dark the abyss into which it was made, the
sportsman was not killed. Neither was he much hurt: for the "punk"
through which he had pitched, though not firm enough to support him, had
offered some resistance to the velocity of his descent; and towards the
bottom he had settled down more gradually.
But though neither killed nor yet stunned by the fall, he was for awhile
as completely deprived of his senses as if he had been both. Surprise
had bereft him not only of the power of speech, but of thought as well;
and for some moments he was as quiet as Jack, after being jerked into
his box.
After a time, however, feeling that, though badly scared, he was not
much hurt, his consciousness began to return to him; and he made a
scramble to recover his legs: for in going down, he had somehow got
doubled up in a sort of tailor-fashion.
He found his feet after an effort; and, as he saw that light came from
above, he raised his eyes in that direction.
It took him some time to make out the exact character of the place in
which he was: for a thick "stoor" was swimming around him, that not only
impeded his sight, but having entered his mouth and nostrils, had
inducted him into a violent fit of sneezing.
The dust however gradually thinned away; and Smythje was enabled to
"define his position."
Above his head was a clear circular patch, which he knew to be the sky;
whilst all around him was a dark brown wall, rising many feet beyond the
reach of his outstretched arms. He became conscious that he was
standing in the concavity of a huge upright cylinder, with a surface of
corrugated rotten wood circling all around him.
As his senses grew clearer--along with the atmosphere--he arrived at a
better understanding of the mishap that had befallen him. He did not,
at first, regard it in the light of a _misfortune_--at least, not a very
heavy one--and he was rather disposed to laugh at it as a ludicrous
adventure.
It was not till he began to think of climbing out, and had actually made
the attempt, that he became aware of a difficulty hitherto unsuspected;
and the contemplation of which at once inspired him with a feeling of
alarm.
A second attempt to get out was unsuccessful as the first; a third
equally so; a fourth had no better issue; a fifth was alike a failure;
and after the sixth, he sank down upon the rotten rubbish in a state
bordering on despair.
Well might he have exclaimed,
"_Facilis descensus Averni, sed revocare gradum_."
But the mind of Mr Smythje was now under the influence of an
indescribable awe, which excluded all thoughts of the classic.
When reflection came to his aid, it was only to make more certain the
fearful reality of his situation. The more he reflected upon it, the
more he became convinced of the peril into which his rash leap had
precipitated him.
It was not simply a slight mishap--a ludicrous adventure--he no longer
saw it in that light. Neither was it a mere misfortune; but a positive
danger--the danger of his life.
Yes, his life was most certainly in danger; and he was not slow in
arriving at this knowledge. The chain of inductive reasoning that led
to it was but too palpably clear--every link of it--from premisses to
conclusion. If he could not help himself out of the prison, in which by
his unlucky leap he had incarcerated himself, who was to help him?
Hope could not long dwell upon Quashie. The darkey had been left some
distance off; and since he had not answered to his calls, he must be
asleep or straying. In either case--or even if awake and still on the
ground of the bivouac--what chances would Quashie have of finding him?
Who was to find him, if not Quashie? Ah! who else? Who was likely to
come that way?
Not a soul! The tree that contained him stood in the midst of a wild
tract--a solitary forest all around--no roads, no paths--he had observed
none. He might be there for a month without a human being approaching
the place; and a week would be enough to finish him! Yes, in one week,
perhaps far less, he might expect to die of starvation! The prospect
was appalling.
And it so appalled him, that again his mind gave way under it, and
relapsed into the stupor of despondence.
It is not natural that one should sink at once into utter despair,
without making an extreme effort. The instinct of self-preservation--
common to the lowest animals--will nerve even the weakest spirit of man.
That of Montagu Smythje was none of the strongest, and had given way at
the first shock; but, after a time, a reaction arose, stimulating him to
make a fresh effort for his life.
Once more starting to his feet, he attempted to scale the steep walls
that encircled him; but the attempt, as before, proved a failure.
In this last trial, however, he discovered that his exertions were
greatly hindered by three special _impedimenta_--the tight fawn-skin
trousers that, moistened with perspiration, clung closely around his
legs; his boots; but, above all, the straps that bound boots and
trousers together.
To get rid of these obstacles became his next thought; and the execution
of such a design might appear easy enough.
On trial, however, it proved a most difficult undertaking.
From the confined space in which he stood, he could not get into a
stooping attitude, so as to reach down to the straps and unbutton them;
and so long as these remained buttoned, it was impossible to take off
the boots. He could squat down tailor-fashion, as he had already done;
but, in that posture the straps became so tightened, that to unbutton
them was clearly out of the question. The delicate fingers of the dandy
were unequal to the effort.
"Necessity is the mother of invention." This adage held good in
Smythje's case: for it just then occurred to him to unfasten his
_suspenders_ instead of his straps, and divest himself of his under
garments all at once!
For this purpose he rose to his feet; but in doing so, a better idea
suggested itself: to cut off his fawn-skin inexpressibles just above the
knees, and thus free boots, straps, and pantaloon bottoms all together!
He had left his hunting-knife by his brandy-flask, and both on the
ground of the bivouac. Fortunately, however, a penknife, which he
carried in his waistcoat pocket, would answer even better; and, drawing
it forth, he proceeded to execute his design.
A cross section of the fawn-skins, just above the knees, was at once
made; and then--by the alternate application of toe to heel--boots,
trouser-bottoms, and all, were cast simultaneously, and Smythje stood in
his stockings!
He did not remain long inactive. Danger urged him to exert himself; and
once more he essayed to scale the walls of his tree-prison.
Alas! after many efforts--many oft-repeated, but unsuccessful
clamberings--he was forced back to the appalling conviction that the
thing was impossible.
He could get up within about four feet of the orifice; but there the
surface, which had been long open to the atmosphere, was worn so smooth
by the weather--besides being still wet and slippery from late rains--
that he could find no holding place upon it; and at every endeavour to
grasp the rotten wood, he lost his balance, and fell backward to the
bottom.
These falls frequently stunned him, almost knocking the breath out of
his body. They were from a considerable height--ten or twelve feet--
and, but for the soft rubbish below, that modified the shock as he came
down, one such descent would have been sufficient to cripple him for
life.
Once more his spirit sank within him. Once more Smythje yielded to
despair.
Volume Two, Chapter V.