Lonely as Fred Munson felt in that dismal cavern, he preferred the
solitude to the companionship of an Apache Indian, and, fearful of
discovery, he crouched down to wait until he should move away. His
involuntary visitor dropped within a few feet of where he was hiding,
and Fred tried to hold his breath for fear he might be detected; but the
fellow quietly rose and gave expression to his sentiments.
“Begorrah, if I haven't fell through into the cellar, as me grandmither
did when she danced down the whole party, and landed on the bottom, and
kept up the jig without a break, keep ing time with the one-eyed fiddler
above.”
Fred could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses. That was the
voice of his old friend, Mickey O'Rooney, or else he was more mistaken
than he had ever been in his life. But whatever doubts might have
lingered with him were removed by the words that immediately followed.
“It beats the blazes where that young spalpeen can be kaping himself. Me
and Misther Simpson have been on the hunt for two days and more, and now
when I got on his trail, and found where he'd crawled into the bushes,
and I tried to do the same, I crawled into the biggest cellar in the
whole world, and I can't find the stairs to walk out again---”
“Helloa, Mickey! Is that you, my old friend?” called out the overjoyed
lad, springing forward, throwing his arms about him, and breaking in
most effectually upon his meditations.
The Irishman was mystified for a moment, but he recognized the voice,
reached down, and placed his arms in turn about the lad.
“Begorrah, if this ain't the greatest surprise of me life, as Mr.
O'Spangarkoghomagh remarked when I called and paid him a little balance
that I owed him. I've had a hard hunt for you, and had about guv you
up when I came down on you in this shtyle. Freddy, me boy, I crave the
privilege of axing ye a question.”
“Ask me a thousand, if you want,” replied the boy, dancing about with
delight.
“Are ye sure that it's yoursilf and nobody else? I don't want to make a
mistake that'll cause me mortification, and ye must answer carefully.''
“I'm sure it is I, Fred Munson.”
“Whoop! hurrah!” shouted Mickey, leaping several feet in the air, and,
as he came down, striking at once into the Tipperary jig.
The overjoyed fellow kept it up for several minutes, making the cold,
moist sand fly in every direction. He terminated the performance by a
higher leap than ever, and a regular Comanche war-whoop. Having vented
his overflowing spirits in this fashion, the Irishman was ready to come
down to something like more sober common sense. Reaching out, he took
the hand of Fred, saying as he did so:
“Let me kaap hold of your flipper, so that I can prevint your drifting
away. Now tell me, my laddy, how did you get here?”
“I come down the same way that you did.”
“Through the skylight up there? It's a handy way of going down-stairs,
the only trouble being that it's sometimes inconvanient to stop so
suddint like. Did n't you obsarve the opening till you stepped into it?”
“I didn't see it then. I was near it, asleep, and when I woke up in
the night I crawled in under the bushes to shelter myself, when I went
through into the cave. How was it you followed?”
“I was sarching for ye, as I've been doing for the last two days and
more. I obsarved the hole, for I had the daylight to help me, and I
crawled up to take a paap down to see who lived there, when I must have
gone too fur, as me uncle obsarved after he had been hung in a joke, and
the ground crumbled beneath me, and I slid in. But let me ax you again,
are ye much acquainted in these parts? You know I'm a stranger.”
“I never was here before. I've looked around all I can, but haven't been
able to find how big the cave is. There's a small waterfall, and the
stream comes in and goes out somewhere, and there is _one_ rent, at
least, so deep that I don't believe it has any bottom. I've learned that
much, and that's all.”
“That's considerable for a laddy like you. Are you hungry?”
“You'd better believe I am.”
“Why had I better belave it?” asked Mickey, with an assumption of
gravity that it was impossible for him to feel. “If ye give me your word
of honor, I'll belave you, because I've been hungry myself, and know how
it goes. I have some lunch wid me, and if ye don't faal above ating with
common folks, we'll sup together.”
“I am so glad,” responded Fred, who was indeed in need of something
substantial. “I feel weak and hollow.”
“Ye shall have your fill; take the word of an Irishman for that. Would
you like to smoke?”
“You know I never smoke, Mickey.”
“I did n't ax ye that question, but if ye doesn't feel inclined to do
the same, I'll indulge myself a little.”
The speaker had been preparing his pipe and tobacco while they were
talking, and, as he uttered the last words, he twitched the match
against the bowl, and immediately began drawing at it.
As the volumes of smoke issuing from his mouth showed that the flame had
done its duty, he held the match aloft, and looked down in the smiling,
upturned face of the lad, scrutinizing the handsome countenance, as long
as the tiny bit of pine held out.
“Yes, it's your own lovely self, as Barney McDougan's wife obsarved,
when he came home drunk, with one eye punched out and his head cracked.
Do ye know that while I was surveying your swate face I saw something
behind ye?”
“No. What was it?” demanded Fred, with a start and shudder, looking back
in the darkness.
“Oh! it was nothing that will harm ye: I think there be some bits of
wood there that kin be availed of in the way of kindling a fire, and
that's what I misses more than anything else, as me mither used to say
when she couldn't find the whisky-bottle. Bestir yourself, me laddy, and
assist me in getting together some scraps.”
The Irishman was not mistaken in his supposition. Groping around, they
found quite a quantity of sticks and bits of wood. All of these were
dry, and the best kind of kindling stuff that could be obtained. Mickey
was never without his knife, and he whittled several of these until sure
they would take the flame from a match when he made the essay.
The fire caught readily, and, carefully nursed, it spread until it
roared and crackled like an old-fashioned camp-fire. As it rose higher
and higher, and the heavy gloom was penetrated and lit up by the
vivifying rays, Mickey and Fred used their eyes to the best of their
ability.
The cave seemed to stretch away into fathomless darkness in every
direction, excepting one, which was toward the waterfall or cascade.
This appeared to be at one side, instead of running through the centre.
The dark walls could be seen on the other side of the stream, and the
gleam and glitter of the water, for some distance both above and below
the plunge.
“Do you obsarve anything new?” asked Mickey.
“Nothing more than what I told you,” replied Fred, supposing he referred
to the extent of the cavern.
“I have larned something,” said the man, significantly.
“What's that?”
“Somebody's been here ahead of us.”
“How do you know that?”
“I've got the proof. Will you note that, right there before your eyes?”
As he spoke, he pointed to the kindling-wood, or fuel, of which they had
collected considerable, while there was plenty more visible around
them. Fred was not sure that he understood him, so he still looked
questioningly toward him.
“Wood doesn't grow in such places as this, no more than ye can find
praties sprouting out of the side of a tea kettle; but then it might
have been pitched down the hole above, or got drifted into it without
anybody helping, if it wasn't for the fact that there's been a camp-fire
here before.”
“How do you make that out, Mickey?”
The Irishman stooped down and picked up one of the pieces of wood, which
was waiting to be thrown upon the camp fire. Holding it out, he showed
that the end was charred.
“That isn't the only stick that's built after the same shtyle, showing
that this isn't the first camp-fire that was got up in these parts.
There's been gintlemen here before to-day, and they must have had some
way of coming and going that we haven't diskivered as yet.”
There seemed nothing unlikely in this supposition of Mickey's, who
picked up his rifle from where he had left it lying on the ground, and
stared inquiringly around in the gloom.
“I wonder whether there be any wild animals prowling around?”
“I don't think that could be; for there couldn't many of them fall
through that hole that let us in, and if they did, they would soon die.”
“That minds me that you hinted something about feeling the cravings
of hunger, and I signified to you that I had something for ye about my
clothes; and so I have, if it isn't lost.”
As he spoke, he drew from beneath his waistcoat a package, carefully
wrapped about with an ordinary newspaper. Gently drawing the covering
aside, he displayed a half-dozen pieces of deer-meat, cooked to a turn.
“Will ye take some?” he asked, handing one to Fred, who could scarcely
conceal his craving eagerness, as he began masticating it.
“How comes it that you have that by you?”
“I ginerally goes prepared for the most desprit emargencies, as me
mither used to remark when she stowed the whisky-bottle away wid the
lunch she was takin' with her. It was about the middle of yisterday
afternoon that I fetched down a deer that was browsing on the bank of
a small stream that I raiched, and, as a matter of coorse, I made
my dinner on him. I tried to lay in enough stock to last me for a
week--that is, under my waistband--but I hadn't the room; so I sliced up
several pieces, rather overcooked 'em, so as to make 'em handy to carry,
and then wrapped 'em up in the paper.”
“It's a common-sense arrangement,” added Mickey. “I had the time and
the chance to do it, and it was likely to happen that, when I wanted the
next meal, I wouldn't have the same opportunity, remembering which I did
as I said, and the result is, I've brought _your_ dinner to you.”