When reflection again favoured the unfortunate man--which it did after a
short time had passed over--his thoughts took a new turn.
He made no further attempt at climbing out. Repeated trials had fully
convinced him of the impracticability of that; and he was now satisfied
that his only hope lay in the chance of Quashie or some one else coming
that way.
It is true that this chance appeared grievously doubtful. Even should
one pass near the dead-wood, how was he to know that he, Smythje, was
inside it? Who would suspect that the old tree was hollow? and, least
of all, that a human being was inclosed within its cylindrical cell--
buried alive, as it were, in this erect wooden sarcophagus?
A person passing might see the gun lying upon the ground outside; but
that would be no clue to the whereabouts of its owner.
After all, some one _might_ be passing, and as he could not be _seen_,
his only hope lay in making himself _heard_.
The moment this thought came into his mind, he commenced crying out at
the highest pitch of his voice.
He regretted that he had not done so before: since some one might have
passed in the interim.
After falling in, he had shouted several times during the moments of his
first surprise: but while making his attempts to clamber out, he had
desisted--the earnestness of his exertions having reduced him to
silence.
Now that he comprehended the necessity of making a noise, he determined
to make up for his former remissness; and he continued to send forth
scream after scream with all the power of his lungs, at intervals
varying his voice from an abrupt sharp screech, to the more prolonged
and dismal monotone of a groan.
For nearly an hour did he continue this melancholy _cavatina_, without
receiving any response beyond the echoes of his own voice, which
reverberated through the concavity in hollow, sepulchral tones--a
mournful monologue of alternate groanings and howlings, interrupted at
intervals as the utterer paused to listen for a response.
But none came. No change took place in his situation, except one that
was calculated to make it still more deplorable and forlorn. As if his
lugubrious appeals had invoked the demon of the storm, the sky above
became suddenly overcast with heavy black clouds; from which came
pouring rain, such as might have fallen during the forty days of the
deluge!
It was one of those tropic showers, where the water gushes from the sky,
not in single, isolated drops, but in long, continuous streams; as if
heavens canopy was one great shower-bath, of which the string had been
jerked and tied down.
Though well sheltered from wind, the unfortunate Smythje had no roof--no
cover of any kind--to shield him from the rain, which came down upon his
devoted head, as though the spout of a pump had been directed into the
hollow of the dead-wood. Indeed, the funnel-shaped orifice, which was
wider than the rest of the concavity, aided in conducting a larger
quantity of rain into it; and, but that the water found means of escape,
by percolating through the mass of dry rubbish below, Mr Smythje might
have been in danger of a more sudden death than by starvation: since, as
he himself afterwards asserted, there fell sufficient water to have
"dwowned" him.
If not drowned, however, he was well _douched_. There was not a stitch
of clothing upon his person that was not wetted through and through: the
silk velvet shooting-coat, the purple vest, and what remained of the
fawn-skin trousers, all were alike soaked and saturated. Even his
whiskers had parted with their crisp rigidity; the curls had come out of
the tails of his moustaches; his hair had lost its amplitude; and all--
hair, whiskers, and moustaches--hung dripping and draggled.
In that melancholy image of manhood that stood shivering in the hollow
tree, it would have required a quick imagination to have recognised Mr
Montagu Smythje, the _debonnaire_ sportsman of the morning.
Lugubrious as were his looks, they were nothing to compare with his
thoughts. There were moments when he felt angry--angry at his
ill-fortune--angry at Quashie--angry at Mr Vaughan, for having provided
an attendant so inattentive to his duties. There were moments when he
felt spiteful enough to swear. Yes, in that fearful crisis, Smythje
_swore_--the owner of Mount Welcome and Quashie being alternately the
object of his abjurations. Jamaica, too, came in for a share of his
spite--its pigeons and guinea-hens, its trees, and, above all, its wild
turkeys!
"The howwid Island!" he cried, in his anguish; "would to ma Makeaw I had
nevaw set foot on its shaws!"
What, at that moment, would he not have given to be once more in his
"deaw metwopolis?" Gladly would he have exchanged his tree-prison for a
chamber in the King's Bench--for a corner in the meanest cell which the
Old Bailey could have afforded him!
Poor Smythje! he had not yet reached the climax of his sorrows. A new
suffering was in store for him--one in comparison with which all he had
undergone was but a mild endurance. It was only when that slimy thing
came crawling over his feet, and began to entwine itself round his
ankles--its cold clammy touch painfully perceptible through his silk
stockings--it was only then that he felt something like a sensation of
real horror!
He was on his legs at the moment; and instantly sprang upward, as if
coals had been suddenly applied to the soles of his feet. But springing
upward did not avail him, since it only resulted in his dropping down
again on the same spot; and, as he did so, he felt writhing beneath his
feet the slippery form of a _serpent_!
Volume Two, Chapter VI.