CHAPTER XVI.

AN ANXIOUS SUNDAY.

At last it was Sunday morning, and the men had now been forty-eight hours in the well. A rumour had got about that they were still alive. The bells rang out for service as usual, and Milly brushed her grandfather's well-worn beaver hat, settled his necktie, and pulled down his coat, just as she had done for the last eight years, and they went off to church together. Somehow it seemed wonderful to Milly that anything should go on as it had done last week, for every one in the village was felling the strain of the anxiety caused by the prolonging of the terrible situation of the entombed men.

Geo Lummis and Martin and two other men had been working all night, and just as the "tolling in" began a relief gang arrived, and the four tired men came trooping through the churchyard, as being the shortest cut to their homes. Milly, with several other people, stood aside to let them pass. They looked worn out and weary, toil-stained and depressed. Nobody spoke, and they none of them lifted their eyes as they passed; they were too dead beat for greeting of any sort. Milly cast a glance at Geo. She was beginning to take a very lively interest in that young man, for Geo, seen through his weak but loving mother's spectacles, was a very different person from Geo seen through her grandfather's somewhat prejudiced glasses. Anyway, he was behaving well now, and there was no need to look back.

The doctor, who accompanied them as far as the gate, now returned, and affirmed the rumour that it had been satisfactorily ascertained that _one_ of the unfortunate men, at least, was alive--that shouts and knocking had been distinctly heard, but that as yet no means of communication had been effected. This, however, he hoped would be done in the course of an hour or two, and he expected to have really good news for them when they came out of church.

Nobody ever quite knew how that service was got through. Most people tried their best to follow, but each one was conscious of a divided attention. Every one was listening with at least one ear for the shout that they knew would go up when the expected communication was affected.

It came at last! The vicar had just gone up to the pulpit and given out his text when though the open doors came the distant shout "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah-h-h!" Many among the congregation started to their feet, some fell to their knees, and others sobbed audibly. The vicar paused with uplifted hand to secure silence till the shouts ceased, and then addressed the people.

"There will be no sermon this morning," he said. "I think your own thankful thoughts will be more appropriate than any words of mine;" and after a short prayer of thanksgiving, he gave the blessing and dismissed the congregation.

"Not, I beg and pray of you," he said, "to rush off to the scene of action, where your presence can be of no service to the unfortunate men, and for the moment will only hinder the efforts of their rescuers. Leave them a little while, is my advice, till the excitement has cooled down, and then take your places quietly beyond the barrier if you will; but I implore you to remember that the men who are working at the relief want cool heads and steady nerves, and they have come fresh to the work, and at present want no encouraging shouts or chaff to keep them going, as our brave fellows did last night when they hardly knew how to go on."

The vicar's advice was good, and, for example's sake, he denied himself the pleasure of hurrying off to the well, and many of his congregation refrained also. It was then twelve o'clock, and by three that afternoon the rescue gang reached the cylinder twenty feet below the surface by tunnelling, only to discover, to their intense dismay, that a mass of woodwork had fallen on to the mouth of it, and that rescue that way was impossible. The foreman, however, managed in a clever way to pull out a small piece of loose wood, and calling down to the men below received the welcome answer, "We are all right, but are in three feet of water. Couldn't you get us a drink?"

The foreman shouted up the message, and in a trice a dozen willing messengers were running to the village, returning speedily with jugs of such various liquors as their personal tastes and means suggested. There were beer, porter, milk, brandy, cocoa, cider; but the doctor, who had been on the scene all morning with his improvised ambulance, insisted on milk and beaten up eggs with brandy. The tidings, of course, soon spread, not only over Willowton, but to all the neighbouring villages, and the half-dozen policemen who were on duty had their work cut out for them in keeping the crowd from coming inside the ropes. As it was, every tree in the vicinity was thick with boys and men, and every fence and bank that offered any point of vantage was a mass of eager lookers-on.

Now it was that the most dangerous work was to begin. It was decided to endeavour to reach the men by making a hole in the top of the cylinder, and three men were lowered with ropes around them, and instructed to remove the soil in pails. This they did with the greatest care, so as to prevent any falling back--a danger that was very likely to occur. At the end of an hour and a half a slight slip occurred, and the entombed men called out that the mould was coming down upon them.

"You're goin' to cover us up and ha' done with us," said Hayes, with a feeble attempt at jocosity; "but give us a drink first."

"Sartinly, sartinly, that we will," said one of the men encouragingly, and a few minutes later a bottle of the "egg-flip," with a covered light attached to it, was lowered through the aperture, and the work began again.

It was nearly half-past seven when the men were again spoken to. They seemed to be losing heart. They had knocked the light out, they said, and they were wet through and wanted to come up.

"So you shall, my boys," shouted the foreman, "as soon as we can get you." And with that they had to be content.