Tom looked in the cabin but, as he had suspected, the coil of rope had
not been brought from the car. So he set forth through the woods to
their obscure parking place.
Meanwhile, Brent proceeded with a systematic exploration of the old
well. Directing his flashlight at the crevices in the masonry of the
shaft, he scrutinized and removed every removable scrap of stone which
might have concealed something. This inspection he carried as high as
his arms could reach. He searched, not only for a metal box, but also
for any remnants of a smaller and perishable container. Here and there
where a stone in the wall looked as if it might easily be dislodged, he
worked it out and scrutinized the hollow place it left. He proceeded
upon the supposition that, if the money were there at all, it would be
secreted in the wall somewhere. It was there, of course, that in all
likelihood no absolutely complete search had ever been made.
And here was a point which his humorous but keen mind took cognizance
of. I thought it was rather skilful reasoning. It occurred to him that
to search the wall was better than to direct his attention to the mud
and débris below him, because the section of wall he was searching _had
probably never been examined before_. If old Buck had examined the walls
he had done so standing on the bottom. But now the bottom was elevated
by many years’ accumulation of nature’s rubbish. Perhaps it was elevated
six or eight feet. So Brent carried on his inspection in a previously
uninspected area of masonry.
It was possible that Mink Havers had reached down from the surface and
slipped his treasure in somewhere. And it was more than probable that
his partner had searched that area, as also the area near the bottom.
But was it not possible that Havers had descended part way, secreted his
treasure behind some loose stone, and then climbed out? If he had, it
seemed likely that there was still an uninspected belt in that crude
masonry. Brent believed (so he said) that the accumulation of débris in
the bottom raised the floor of the well to a point enabling him to
explore this area. It was good reasoning and showed his real
intelligence.
He had not scrutinized the wall for long, nor removed many suspicious
stones, before he noticed something which gave him a thrill. This was a
stone with a rough cross cut upon it. And you will understand that this
was at a point in the well which must have been several feet above the
head even of Long Buck as he stood on the bottom many years before. You
will remember, too, that the old hunter had no glaring flashlight to aid
him in his search.
With these thoughts in his mind it was with a thrill that Brent’s eye
fell upon this rough cross cut in a stone of the masonry. With his
jackknife he began digging at the plaster around it and his hope ran
high as he found that it crumbled readily. He thought that clay might
hastily have been introduced there in place of the dislodged plaster.
At last with trembling hands he got a hold upon the stone and worked it
out. I can well imagine his excitement (young philosopher though he is)
as he removed this stone with its telltale mark. He had to reach
somewhat above him to do this and had slipped his flashlight under his
armpit to use both hands, when suddenly the flashlight slipped from its
place and fell upon the enmeshed and rotted accumulation on which he had
been keeping a precarious foothold. Instantly there was an appalling
rattling sound (emphasized, I suppose, by that dark echoing shaft) and
Brent’s blood ran cold as he beheld almost at his very feet a coiled
snake hissing with darting tongue at the area of brightness shed by the
flashlight.
Brent still held the stone in air and his thoughts of hidden treasure
vanished at the horrible spectacle below him. Should he drop the stone
upon the enraged reptile? Suppose it should not fall right? And how long
would this frightful thing, hated by man and bird and beast--how long
would it wait?
It was angry at the flashlight, not at Brent. But if Brent moved,
stirred ... And, meanwhile, the seconds passed. A crumbling bit of
plaster fell. The hissing continued. The little ball of light burned
brightly and cast a luminous circle on the dank, oppressive débris. Six,
seven, eight seconds. And Brent Gaylong did not stir--not a hair. He
stood like a statue. But his blood was cold. Nine, ten, eleven seconds.
We are all subject to insane impulses. Who has not felt the impulse to
jump off a roof? For a moment Brent was in the spell of a strange
impulse to stoop leisurely, lay down the stone and pick up his
flashlight. But he did not do that. He did not budge. He still held the
stone above his head, like a piece of Roman statuary. The reptile did
not budge either, but he rattled and hissed, and his tongue darted like
lightning. And meanwhile the seconds passed--twelve, thirteen,
fourteen....