Chapter Chapter 31 · CHAPTER XXXI. An Exploring Expedition—Trouble Commences—Lost in the

. CHAPTER XXXI. An Exploring Expedition—Trouble Commences—Lost in the

Now to return to Tom and Becky’s share in the picnic. They tripped along

the murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the familiar

wonders of the cave—wonders dubbed with rather over-descriptive names,

such as “The Drawing-Room,” “The Cathedral,” “Aladdin’s Palace,” and

so on. Presently the hide-and-seek frolicking began, and Tom and Becky

engaged in it with zeal until the exertion began to grow a trifle

wearisome; then they wandered down a sinuous avenue holding their

candles aloft and reading the tangled webwork of names, dates,

postoffice addresses, and mottoes with which the rocky walls had been

frescoed (in candle-smoke). Still drifting along and talking, they

scarcely noticed that they were now in a part of the cave whose walls

were not frescoed. They smoked their own names under an overhanging

shelf and moved on. Presently they came to a place where a little stream

of water, trickling over a ledge and carrying a limestone sediment with

it, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a laced and ruffled Niagara

in gleaming and imperishable stone. Tom squeezed his small body behind

it in order to illuminate it for Becky’s gratification. He found that

it curtained a sort of steep natural stairway which was enclosed between

narrow walls, and at once the ambition to be a discoverer seized him.

Becky responded to his call, and they made a smoke-mark for future

guidance, and started upon their quest. They wound this way and that,

far down into the secret depths of the cave, made another mark, and

branched off in search of novelties to tell the upper world about. In

one place they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling depended a

multitude of shining stalactites of the length and circumference of

a man’s leg; they walked all about it, wondering and admiring, and

presently left it by one of the numerous passages that opened into

it. This shortly brought them to a bewitching spring, whose basin was

incrusted with a frostwork of glittering crystals; it was in the midst

of a cavern whose walls were supported by many fantastic pillars which

had been formed by the joining of great stalactites and stalagmites

together, the result of the ceaseless water-drip of centuries. Under the

roof vast knots of bats had packed themselves together, thousands in a

bunch; the lights disturbed the creatures and they came flocking down by

hundreds, squeaking and darting furiously at the candles. Tom knew their

ways and the danger of this sort of conduct. He seized Becky’s hand and

hurried her into the first corridor that offered; and none too soon, for

a bat struck Becky’s light out with its wing while she was passing out

of the cavern. The bats chased the children a good distance; but the

fugitives plunged into every new passage that offered, and at last got

rid of the perilous things. Tom found a subterranean lake, shortly,

which stretched its dim length away until its shape was lost in the

shadows. He wanted to explore its borders, but concluded that it would

be best to sit down and rest awhile, first. Now, for the first time, the

deep stillness of the place laid a clammy hand upon the spirits of the

children. Becky said:

“Why, I didn’t notice, but it seems ever so long since I heard any of

the others.”

“Come to think, Becky, we are away down below them—and I don’t know how

far away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is. We couldn’t hear

them here.”

Becky grew apprehensive.

“I wonder how long we’ve been down here, Tom? We better start back.”

“Yes, I reckon we better. P’raps we better.”

“Can you find the way, Tom? It’s all a mixed-up crookedness to me.”

“I reckon I could find it—but then the bats. If they put our candles

out it will be an awful fix. Let’s try some other way, so as not to go

through there.”

“Well. But I hope we won’t get lost. It would be so awful!” and the girl

shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities.

They started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long

way, glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything familiar

about the look of it; but they were all strange. Every time Tom made an

examination, Becky would watch his face for an encouraging sign, and he

would say cheerily:

“Oh, it’s all right. This ain’t the one, but we’ll come to it right

away!”

But he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently began

to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in desperate hope of

finding the one that was wanted. He still said it was “all right,” but

there was such a leaden dread at his heart that the words had lost their

ring and sounded just as if he had said, “All is lost!” Becky clung to

his side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back the tears,

but they would come. At last she said:

“Oh, Tom, never mind the bats, let’s go back that way! We seem to get

worse and worse off all the time.”

“Listen!” said he.

Profound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were

conspicuous in the hush. Tom shouted. The call went echoing down

the empty aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that

resembled a ripple of mocking laughter.

“Oh, don’t do it again, Tom, it is too horrid,” said Becky.

“It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear us, you know,” and

he shouted again.

The “might” was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it so

confessed a perishing hope. The children stood still and listened; but

there was no result. Tom turned upon the back track at once, and hurried

his steps. It was but a little while before a certain indecision in his

manner revealed another fearful fact to Becky—he could not find his way

back!

“Oh, Tom, you didn’t make any marks!”

“Becky, I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never thought we might want to

come back! No—I can’t find the way. It’s all mixed up.”

“Tom, Tom, we’re lost! we’re lost! We never can get out of this awful

place! Oh, why _did_ we ever leave the others!”

She sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that Tom

was appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason. He

sat down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in

his bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing

regrets, and the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter. Tom

begged her to pluck up hope again, and she said she could not. He fell

to blaming and abusing himself for getting her into this miserable

situation; this had a better effect. She said she would try to hope

again, she would get up and follow wherever he might lead if only he

would not talk like that any more. For he was no more to blame than she,

she said.

So they moved on again—aimlessly—simply at random—all they could do

was to move, keep moving. For a little while, hope made a show of

reviving—not with any reason to back it, but only because it is its

nature to revive when the spring has not been taken out of it by age and

familiarity with failure.

By-and-by Tom took Becky’s candle and blew it out. This economy meant so

much! Words were not needed. Becky understood, and her hope died again.

She knew that Tom had a whole candle and three or four pieces in his

pockets—yet he must economize.

By-and-by, fatigue began to assert its claims; the children tried to pay

attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was

grown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction,

was at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to

invite death and shorten its pursuit.

At last Becky’s frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat down.

Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there,

and the comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky cried, and Tom

tried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements

were grown thread-bare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue bore

so heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off to sleep. Tom was grateful.

He sat looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural

under the influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a smile dawned and

rested there. The peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing

into his own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and

dreamy memories. While he was deep in his musings, Becky woke up with a

breezy little laugh—but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan

followed it.

“Oh, how _could_ I sleep! I wish I never, never had waked! No! No, I

don’t, Tom! Don’t look so! I won’t say it again.”

“I’m glad you’ve slept, Becky; you’ll feel rested, now, and we’ll find

the way out.”

“We can try, Tom; but I’ve seen such a beautiful country in my dream. I

reckon we are going there.”

“Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let’s go on trying.”

They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They tried

to estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was

that it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not

be, for their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this—they

could not tell how long—Tom said they must go softly and listen for

dripping water—they must find a spring. They found one presently, and

Tom said it was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky

said she thought she could go a little farther. She was surprised to

hear Tom dissent. She could not understand it. They sat down, and Tom

fastened his candle to the wall in front of them with some clay. Thought

was soon busy; nothing was said for some time. Then Becky broke the

silence:

“Tom, I am so hungry!”

Tom took something out of his pocket.

“Do you remember this?” said he.

Becky almost smiled.

“It’s our wedding-cake, Tom.”

“Yes—I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it’s all we’ve got.”

“I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, Tom, the way grownup

people do with wedding-cake—but it’ll be our—”

She dropped the sentence where it was. Tom divided the cake and Becky

ate with good appetite, while Tom nibbled at his moiety. There was

abundance of cold water to finish the feast with. By-and-by Becky

suggested that they move on again. Tom was silent a moment. Then he

said:

“Becky, can you bear it if I tell you something?”

Becky’s face paled, but she thought she could.

“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.

Now an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It

would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the

heavy time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to

a projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the

line as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended

in a “jumping-off place.” Tom got down on his knees and felt below,

and then as far around the corner as he could reach with his hands

conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the

right, and at that moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding

a candle, appeared from behind a rock! Tom lifted up a glorious shout,

and instantly that hand was followed by the body it belonged to—Injun

Joe’s! Tom was paralyzed; he could not move. He was vastly gratified the

next moment, to see the “Spaniard” take to his heels and get himself out

of sight. Tom wondered that Joe had not recognized his voice and come

over and killed him for testifying in court. But the echoes must have

disguised the voice. Without doubt, that was it, he reasoned. Tom’s

fright weakened every muscle in his body. He said to himself that if he

had strength enough to get back to the spring he would stay there, and

nothing should tempt him to run the risk of meeting Injun Joe again. He

was careful to keep from Becky what it was he had seen. He told her he

had only shouted “for luck.”

But hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run.

Another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought

changes. The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom believed

that it must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or Saturday, now,

and that the search had been given over. He proposed to explore another

passage. He felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all other terrors. But

Becky was very weak. She had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be

roused. She said she would wait, now, where she was, and die—it would

not be long. She told Tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he

chose; but she implored him to come back every little while and speak

to her; and she made him promise that when the awful time came, he would

stay by her and hold her hand until all was over.

Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a show

of being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the cave;

then he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the

passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick with

bodings of coming doom.