MR. CHILLINGWORTH FIRES—AND MISSES.
As is often the case where a disaster so complete has overtaken men,
their very powers of speech seem to be taken from them. We read of men
entombed in mines sitting silently awaiting the end, and of the silence
in which disabled submarines have sunk to the bed of the sea.
It was so in this case. After a brief examination had shown them, what
in fact they already knew, that tons of stone blocked their escape from
the cave, they had relapsed into apparent apathy.
No one even appeared to notice Tom, who presently came to himself and
stood dizzily upright. The lamp still burned in the rear of the cavern,
shedding a dim, yellow light. But outside its rays the place was pitchy
black. The weight of the rock that had fallen blocking the cave mouth
had also shut out all sound of the fury of the storm—so that the place
was as silent as a graveyard.
In answer to Tom’s questions the professor told him in a dull, listless
voice, what had occurred. Tom was a plucky lad and had faced a good many
dangers without flinching, but as he realized their position his heart
sank, and he felt a queer, sickish feeling, that, if it were not real
panic, approximated it pretty closely.
“Then there is no hope?”
Tom heard the professor to the end and then spoke in the same dull,
toneless voice.
The other shook his head.
“A convulsion of nature seated that stone there,” he said; “another one
displaced it. It is hoping too much that a third will occur and free
us.”
“Then we must sit here till we die?”
Mr. Chillingworth’s voice struck in. It was as lifeless as the tones of
the others.
As for Monday and Tuesday they took no part in the conversation, but sat
moodily in the rear of the cave accepting their fate in a stoical
manner.
“I am afraid that the only thing for us to do is to die like men and
Americans,” said the professor bravely.
“Oh, no! no! I cannot die like this. I must get out! Oh, heaven, I won’t
die like this!”
As he shouted thus incoherently the rancher dashed himself against the
rock that sealed the cave mouth. Tom started up to drag him from the
entrance and prevent his uselessly bruising and cutting himself. But the
professor laid a hand on the boy’s arm.
“Leave him alone,” he said; “poor fellow. Life was good to him. He will
be quieter when that paroxysm is over.”
And so it proved. The rancher’s desperate fit left him weak and
exhausted. He sank down on a bit of rock, his head buried in his hand.
But his heaving shoulders told what he was enduring.
Tom felt that he, too, would have liked to leap to his feet and hurl his
body at the imprisoning rock, but he restrained himself by an effort.
“If I am to die, I’ll at least try to die as a man should,” thought the
boy to himself.
For some time more they sat in gloomy silence. The only sound that broke
the hush was that of Chillingworth’s sobs. Presently the professor
arose, and not with any real sense of finding anything, commenced, with
the aid of the lantern, a thorough examination of the cave. But if he
had ever expected to find any outlet, he was disappointed. The place was
without any other aperture than the one the fallen mass of stone had
sealed.
“Do you think that any one will ever find our—our—bodies in this
dreadful place?” said Tom, as the professor, abandoning his search with
a sigh, rejoined the boy.
“I am afraid not,” said the scientist gloomily. “Why, what did you have
in mind, my boy?”
“Why, I have a bit of chalk here,” said Tom. “I thought we might scrawl
up our names and the date and what happened on the walls of the cave. It
would be a record in case—in case—” his voice shook, but he controlled
it bravely—“they ever found us,” he concluded.
“At any rate, it will be something to do,” agreed the professor, falling
in with the idea heartily. “But why not leave a more complete
message—an account of our strange captivity, and so on? I have a pencil
somewhere, and a tablet for making scientific notes.”
“Good!” rejoined Tom. “You write the lengthy account while I chalk up a
shorter record on the rocks.”
He turned toward the wall, looking about for a smooth place to letter
their last message upon, while the professor began fumbling in his
pockets for his pencil. The implement did not seem to be handy. At any
rate, the man of science explored all his outside pockets without
result. Then he began on his inside ones.
Suddenly, while he was feeling about inside his coat, he gave a cry that
echoed oddly through the silences of the sealed cave. So sharp and so
peculiar was the tone that Chillingworth looked up from between his
hands.
“Have you found the pencil?” asked Tom, in a steady voice, turning from
his work with the chalk and coming toward the professor.
The next instant he felt a sharp chilling of his senses. The professor’s
mind had undoubtedly given way under the strain of the terrible
situation.
He was creeping toward Tom, holding something with the utmost care
between his long fingers. He was regarding this object, which, Tom
thought from its shape, must be a pencil, with smiles of what seemed
insane delight and foolish, meaningless gibberings.
“What’s the matter, professor?” asked Tom, stepping briskly toward him
and adopting a tone like one would use toward a child. “Come, brace up,
sir. Don’t give way!”
For the professor was now giggling hysterically. The Kanakas, sullenly
crouched by the lamp in a far corner, regarded him curiously. Monday
tapped his forehead significantly.
“Tom, my boy,” breathed the professor, laying a bony hand on the boy’s
shoulder—“Tom, I’m not crazy! Listen to me.” Then evidently making a
strong effort to control himself, he sank his voice into a hard, level
tone: “We have a chance of escape!”
Tom gave an amazed gasp. Words—he had none to fit this staggering
statement.
“Do you see this little tube?” the professor went on.
He held up the long, thin, cylindrical object which Tom had mistaken for
a pencil. He now saw that it was a glass tube about ten inches long and
filled with a yellow, pasty-looking substance.
“In that tube are four ounces of my explosive,” whispered the professor,
his eyes burning.
“The same stuff that blew Mrs. Bijur’s roof up?” gasped Tom, but without
a hint of laughter in his voice or on his face. He began to see what was
in the wind now.
“Yes,” was the rejoinder; “at least what exploded there was not more
than a hundredth part of this tube, and it was not of anything like
similar strength, being diluted. I had this explosive with me on the
yawl, thinking that I might use it in geological work—diluted, of
course. When the collision came I recollect seizing up this tube of my
invention and thrusting it into my coat. In this rush of recent events I
had forgotten it till this moment, when, in my search for a pencil, I
encountered it.”
“What do you mean to do with it?” asked Tom, in the same breathless
tones. Without knowing it, he was clutching the professor in the
intensity of his excitement and eager hope.
“I mean to attempt to blow up the rock that blocks the entrance of this
cave,” was the calm reply. “We have tools—a drill, and we can use that
long stick I cut as a walking staff, for a tampon to drive the charge
home.”
“But how are we to fire it?” asked Tom. “We have no fuse and no means of
getting one.”
“Confound it!” exclaimed the professor, his hopes dashed to the lowest
ebb once more. “What a fellow I am to forget details. What are we to do?
Here we have the means of escape within our grasp almost, only to see
them snatched away by such an unlucky chance as this. In any event, an
ordinary fuse would do us no good. My explosive only ignites by
detonation—in other words, by being dealt a hard blow. If only we had a
fulminate of mercury cap——”
“Might as well wish that the stone hadn’t fallen,” said Tom briskly. “I
tell you what, Professor, let us start those Kanakas drilling a hole in
the rock where it seems thinnest. While they are doing it we, perhaps,
can think of some plan to explode the charge.”
It is a striking example of the effect of action on men that the
Kanakas, once they were set to work, became far less gloomy. They tapped
the rock eagerly to ascertain, while the professor listened to see,
where it sounded the least solid. He finally selected a place and
ordered the two South Sea natives to commence their bore there. They at
once set to work at the task, while Mr. Chillingworth, who had been
roused from his lethargy by even this remote chance of gaining freedom,
talked over eagerly with the others the possibility of hitting upon a
way to explode the charge and shatter the stone without using a
detonator. The rancher had had considerable experience with dynamite and
giant powder on his ranch, where he had blown up scores of big tree
roots, so that his contributions to the discussion were intelligent
ones.
At last he sprang to his feet with a sharp cry: “I’ve got it. I know how
we can explode that stuff.”
The others looked eagerly.
“How?” asked the professor bluntly.
“By hitting it with a bullet.”
“What?”
“I mean what I say. We have a pistol and two of us at least are good
shots. We will place that explosive in the hole in the rock when it is
drilled and then fire it by striking it with a bullet from the revolver,
Tom secured when Lake dropped it.”
“That is a good idea,” said the professor dryly, “but when the explosion
comes what is to become of us?”
Chillingworth’s enthusiasm vanished like the effervescence of a wet
rocket.
“I didn’t think of that,” he said. “There is a chance that we might be
blown to pieces by the same explosion that rends the rock.”
“Perfectly correct,” agreed the professor, with a curious ring in his
voice, “but not necessary. The force of my explosive, when confined, is
invariably downward and inward. That is to say, in this case if we bore
a hole at a steep angle into the rock, we may be able to shatter part of
it without hurting ourselves.”
The Kanakas were at once set to work boring another hole slanting in the
proposed direction. When this was accomplished, the professor gingerly
placed the tube of high explosive within the aperture and announced
that, so far as he was concerned, all was ready.
“Hold on a minute,” exclaimed Tom, as a sudden idea struck him.
Drawing out his chalk, he marked a ring round the mouth of the bore.
“There,” he exclaimed, “that makes a good target and the hole containing
the explosive is the bull’s-eye.”
“Hitting which in this case may mean annihilation, swift and terrible,”
said the professor dryly.
“We must make up our minds to take that chance,” said Mr. Chillingworth
firmly, and Tom was rejoiced to see that the rancher’s nerve had come
back.
“Will you take the first shot?” he asked, handing the pistol to the
rancher.
The Kanakas gazed on curiously. They had been told of the daring attempt
that was to be made, and had no objection. A shrug of the shoulders was
their way of saying:
“As well death one way as another.”
Mr. Chillingworth accepted the pistol and weighed it curiously to
ascertain its balance.
“A nice little weapon,” he said, in a calm voice.
“I think we had all better shake hands,” said the professor, “before we
retire to the rear of the cave.”
Seriously the trio imprisoned in the living tomb shook hands and then
started back to the extreme end of the cavern. Just before they did
this, the lantern had been placed where its light would fall on the
target. This left the rear part of the cave in blackness. Perhaps they
each were glad of this. Tom knew he had no wish to look at the others’
faces, although he hoped that no trace of fear showed on his own.
Packing themselves as compactly as possible against the rear wall of the
place, they fell into silence as Chillingworth made ready to fire. Only
by a constant wetting of his lips with the tip of his tongue did the
rancher betray his excitement. Tom could feel his pulses pounding and
his heart beating till it seemed it would burst his ribs. The sweat
rolled off his face. He wondered how the professor felt. Would
Chillingworth never stop his everlasting balancing of the pistol and
aiming of it at the target? What would Jack——?
“Now!”
The rancher’s exclamation was followed by a sharp report, all the more
deafening for the tiny space in which they were confined. Tom threw
himself on his face, and so did the others, waiting a second and a more
terrible shock.
But it didn’t come. For once in his life Chillingworth, who was rated a
first-class shot, had missed his target.