“That’s what it sounded like. You don’t suppose,” a new terror was
dawning in her eyes, “that being down there all this time has—has
affected Hamish’s mind?”
“I think you misunderstood him,” I repeated soothingly. “Perhaps he
said for Michael to bring a pail.”
“A pail! Oh, then there must be water in the well after all! He’s
probably caught pneumonia!” She put her head back to the hole. “Oh,
Hamish, are you very wet?”
“He says he’s dry as a bone!” she sat up. “He says he’s got to have a
drink right away!”
“Well, I guess he’ll just have to wait,” I said.
But Hattie May’s eyes had lighted on something—a bottle on the ground
where Eve had left it. It was the dandelion wine for Mrs. Viner. She
pounced on it. “I’m going to drop this down!” she exclaimed.
“You’re crazy, Hattie May!” I protested. “The bottle will be sure to
break or hit him on the head. Besides,” I added weakly, “very likely he
doesn’t like dandelion wine—many don’t.”
“How can you talk like that, Sandy, at such a moment! I guess if your
brother was perishing of thirst and you had some drink to give him—I
guess you wouldn’t hesitate!”
“Well,” I said resignedly, “if you crack his skull, I don’t think it
will help matters any.” But she wasn’t listening. She was leaning again
over the jagged aperture, the bottle in her hand. I took another
strangle hold on the back of her skirt and held my peace.
The bottle disappeared into the void. Just as it did so, I heard the
sound of voices behind me. Michael Gilpatrick was running toward us and
behind him was a man in blue overalls, carrying a bundle of rope.
Panting in the rear, came Eve.
“Oh, Michael, I’m glad you’re not—I’m glad you came!” I cried. He gave
me barely a nod. I had never seen him look so solemn. “How’d he get
down there?” he asked going quickly to the hole and peering down.
“We don’t know—we heard him shouting.”
“Oh, do hurry,” urged Hattie May. “He says he’s perishing.”
The man, whom Michael called Jo, had now come up, and, without any more
words, the two set to work. We waited breathlessly, Hattie May clinging
hard to my wrist, Eve still panting on the ground at our feet. There
was an endless wait after they let down the rope while they waited for
Hamish to make it fast. Finally came the call to go ahead, and they
began to haul. Inch by inch, tugging singly and together. The muscles
in Michael’s arms stood out brown and hard; perspiration streamed from
his face; even the burly Jo was gasping.
At the moment when her brother’s head appeared above the hole, Hattie
May let out a frightful scream. I don’t know whether it was just the
reaction or the sight of his straw-colored hair and face plastered with
mud. But she continued to scream until the rescue was completed and
Hamish himself, blinking and tottering on unsteady feet, stood before
us. “Shut up!” he said.
His sister threw herself upon him. “Oh, Hamish, you look awful—are you
hurt?”
Michael put out a hand to unfasten the rope about his waist. “He’s
okay, aren’t you, Hamish?” he said, gently pushing Hattie May aside.
“An’ fer the love of Mike, how’d you manage to fall down there?” Jo
demanded, curiously surveying him.
Hamish didn’t answer. He was peering at Michael through near-sighted
eyes—his glasses were gone. “How’d you get out?” he demanded suddenly.
A deeper flush poured over Michael’s hot face. But he only shrugged.
“How long have you been down there?” he asked in his turn.
“All night,” Hamish told him. “And, boy, it was some night, believe me!”
“It must have been ghastly,” returned Michael. “How in the world did it
happen?”
But Hamish announced that he couldn’t say another word till he’d had a
drink. “Didn’t you get the bottle I threw down?” his sister demanded.
His only answer was a look!
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