checked by something in front; and with the wind now
tearing by him with a roar, he felt above and below the obstacle,
finding room to pass his arm beyond it readily; but further progress was
impossible, the passage being completely choked by the block of stone
which must have slid down from above.

CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

SAM HARDOCK AT HIS WORST.

Gwyn tugged and strained at the block, hoping to dislodge it as he had
the former one; but his efforts were vain, and at last, with his fingers
sore and the perspiration streaming down his face, he backed down the
steep chimney-like place, satisfied that Grip must have made his way
through the narrow aperture beneath one corner of the block, where the
wind rushed up, but perfectly convinced that without the aid of tools or
gunpowder no human being could force a way, while the very idea of
gunpowder suggested the explosion causing the tumbling down of the rock
around to bury them alive.

"Well," said Joe, looking up at him anxiously, with his face showing
clearly by the open door of his lanthorn, "can we get farther?"

Gwyn felt as if he could not reply, and remained silent.

"You might as well tell me the worst."

"I'm going to try again," said Gwyn, hoarsely, and he glanced at
Hardock, who was lying prone on the rock with his face buried in his
hands. "The way's blocked up."

"Then we shall have to lie here till the water comes gurgling up to fill
this place and drown us, if we are not smothered before."

"We can't be smothered in a place where there is so much air."

"I don't know," said Joe, thoughtfully--his feeling of despair seeming
to have deadened the agony he had felt; "I've been thinking it out while
you were grovelling up there like a rat, and I think that the air will
soon be all driven out of the mine by the water. Ugh! hark at it now.
How it comes bubbling and racing up there! If you put your head over
the edge of the rock there, it's fit to blow you away, and it smells
horribly. But can't you get any farther up?"

"No, not a foot. Go up and try yourself."

"No," said Joe, slowly. "A bit ago I felt as if I could do anything to
get out of this horrible place; but now I'm fagged, like Sam Hardock
there, and don't seem to mind much about it, except when I think of
father."

"Don't talk like that," cried Gwyn, passionately, "I can't bear it.
Here, we must do something; it's so cowardly to lie down and die without
trying to get out. You go up