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- “Well, then, Becky, we must stay here, where there’s water to drink.
That little piece is our last candle!”
Becky gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom did what he could to comfort
her, but with little effect. At length Becky said:
“Tom!”
“Well, Becky?”
“They’ll miss us and hunt for us!”
“Yes, they will! Certainly they will!”
“Maybe they’re hunting for us now, Tom.”
“Why, I reckon maybe they are. I hope they are.”
“When would they miss us, Tom?”
“When they get back to the boat, I reckon.”
“Tom, it might be dark then—would they notice we hadn’t come?”
“I don’t know. But anyway, your mother would miss you as soon as they
got home.”
A frightened look in Becky’s face brought Tom to his senses and he saw
that he had made a blunder. Becky was not to have gone home that night!
The children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment a new burst of
grief from Becky showed Tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers
also—that the Sabbath morning might be half spent before Mrs. Thatcher
discovered that Becky was not at Mrs. Harper’s.
The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched it
melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of wick stand alone
at last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin column of
smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then—the horror of utter darkness
reigned!
How long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow consciousness that
she was crying in Tom’s arms, neither could tell. All that they knew
was, that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of
a dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more. Tom said
it might be Sunday, now—maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk, but
her sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. Tom said that
they must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going
on. He would shout and maybe some one would come. He tried it; but in
the darkness the distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it no
more.
The hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again. A
portion of Tom’s half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it. But
they seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of food only whetted
desire.
By-and-by Tom said:
“SH! Did you hear that?”
Both held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the
faintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading Becky by
the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction. Presently
he listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little
nearer.
“It’s them!” said Tom; “they’re coming! Come along, Becky—we’re all
right now!”
The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was slow,
however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded
against. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be three
feet deep, it might be a hundred—there was no passing it at any rate.
Tom got down on his breast and reached as far down as he could. No
bottom. They must stay there and wait until the searchers came. They
listened; evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant!
a moment or two more and they had gone altogether. The heart-sinking
misery of it! Tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He
talked hopefully to Becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no
sounds came again.
The children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time dragged
on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom believed
it must be Tuesday by this time.
- title
- Chunk 4