Suddenly from
above came a new voice altogether, a white man's voice.
"Right oh, boss! We've got him."
The windlass recommenced its creaking, and the figure at the end
of the rope continued its slow, upward journey. Hugh saw the body
hauled slowly to the top and grabbed by a strong hand; then it
disappeared, and the sunlight once more streamed, uninterrupted,
down the shaft. The bucket came down again, and Hugh clutched it
and yelled out, "Haul away!" He could hear the men grunting above
as they turned the handle.
When he had been hauled about fifteen feet there was a crack; the
old windlass had collapsed, and he went souse, feet first, into
the water. He sank till he touched the bottom, then rose gasping
to the surface. A head appeared, framed in the circle of the well,
and a slow, drawling colonial voice said:
"Gord! boss, are you hurt? The windlass is broke."
"No, I'm not hurt. Can't you fix that windlass?" roared Hugh.
"No!" came the answer sepulchrally down the well. "She's cooked."
"Well, hold on," said Hugh. "I believe I can get up." He braced
his feet against one side of the well, and his shoulders against
the other, and so, working them alternately, he raised himself inch
by inch. It is a feat that requires a good man to perform, and the
strain was very great.
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