LITMIR.BIZ

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not constructed for going backwards.”

      “Oh, dear,” whispered Brenda, “I wish we hadn’t come. Dear little dogs ought to be taken comfortable care of and not be sent out on nasty ships that can’t turn back when it’s dangerous.”

      “My dear,” said Max with slow firmness, “dear little dogs can’t help themselves now. So they had better look out for chances of helping their masters.”

      “But what can we do, then?” said Philip impatiently.

      “I fear,” said the parrot, “that we can do nothing but go straight on. If this river is in a book it will come out somewhere. No river in a book ever runs underground and stays there.”

      “I shan’t wake Lucy,” said Philip; “she might be frightened.”

      “You needn’t,” said Lucy, “she’s awake, and she’s no more frightened than you are.”

      (“You hear that,” said Max to Brenda; “you take example by her, my dear!”)

      “But if we are going the wrong way, we shan’t reach the Great Sloth,” Lucy went on.

      “Sooner or later, one way or another, we shall come to him,” said the parrot; “and time is of no importance to a Great Sloth.”

      It was now very cold, and our travellers were glad to wrap themselves in the flags of all nations with which the yacht was handsomely provided. Philip made a sort of tabard of the Union Jack and the old Royal Arms of England, with the lilies and leopards; and Lucy wore the Japanese flag as a shawl. She said the picture of the sun on it made her feel warm. But Philip shivered under his complicated crosses and lions, as the Lightning Loose swept on over the dark tide between the dark walls and under the dark roof of the cavern.

      “Cheer up,” said the parrot. “Think what a lot of adventures you’re having that no one else has ever had: think what a lot of things you’ll have to tell the other boys when you go to school.”

      “The other boys wouldn’t believe a word of it,” said Philip in gloom. “I wouldn’t unless I knew it was true.”

      “What I think is,” said Lucy, watching the yellow light from the lamps rushing ahead along the roof, “that we shan’t want to tell people. It’ll be just enough to know it ourselves and talk about it, just Philip and me together.”

      “Well, as to that—” the parrot was beginning doubtfully, when he broke off to exclaim:

      “Do my claws deceive me or is there a curious vibration, and noticeable acceleration of velocity?”

      “Eh?” said Philip, which is not manners, and he knew it.

      “He means,” said Max stolidly, “aren’t we going rather fast and rather wobbly?”

      We certainly were. The Lightning Loose was going faster and faster along that subterranean channel, and every now and then gave a lurch and a shiver.

      “Oh!” whined Brenda; “this is a dreadful place for dear little dogs!”

      “Philip!” said Lucy in a low voice, “I know something is going to happen. Something dreadful. We are friends, aren’t we?”

      “Yes,” said Philip firmly.

      “Then I wish you’d kiss me.”

      “I can like you just as much without that,” said Philip uneasily. “Kissing people—it’s silly, don’t you think?”

      “Nobody’s kissed me since daddy went away,” she said, “except Helen. And you don’t mind kissing Helen. She said you were going to adopt me for your sister.”

      “Oh! all right,” said Philip, and put his arm round her and kissed her. She felt so little and helpless and bony in his arm that he suddenly felt sorry for her, kissed her again more kindly and then, withdrawing his arm, thumped her hearteningly on the back.

      “Be a man,” he said in tones of comradeship and encouragement. “I’m perfectly certain nothing’s going to happen. We’re just going through a tunnel, and presently we shall just come out into the open air again, with the sky and the stars going on as usual.”

      He spoke this standing on the prow beside Lucy, and as he spoke she clutched his arm.

      “Oh, look,” she breathed, “oh, listen!”

      He listened. And he heard a dull echoing roar that got louder and louder. And he looked. The light of the lamps shone ahead on the dark gleaming water, and then quite suddenly it did not shine on the water because there was no longer any water for it to shine on. Only great empty black darkness. A great hole, ahead, into which the stream poured itself. And now they were at the edge of the gulf. The Lightning Loose gave a shudder and a bound and hung for what seemed a long moment on the edge of the precipice down which the underground river was pouring itself in a smooth sleek stream, rather like poured treacle, over what felt like the edge of everything solid.

      The moment ended, and the little yacht, with Philip and Lucy and the parrot and the two dogs, plunged headlong over the edge into the dark unknown abyss below.

      “It’s all right, Lu,” said Philip in that moment. “I’ll take care of you.”

      And then there was silence in the cavern—only the rushing sound of the great waterfall echoed in the rocky arch.

      CHAPTER X

      THE GREAT SLOTH

      You have heard of Indians shooting rapids in their birch-bark canoes? And perhaps you have yourself sailed a toy boat on a stream, and made a dam of clay, and waited with more or less patience till the water rose nearly to the top, and then broken a bit of your dam out and made a waterfall and let your boat drift over the edge of it. You know how it goes slowly at first, then hesitates and sweeps on more and more quickly. Sometimes it upsets; and sometimes it shudders and strains and trembles and sways to one side and to the other, and at last rights itself and makes up its mind, and rushes on down the stream, usually to be entangled in the clump of rushes at the stream’s next turn. This is what happened to that good yacht, the Lightning Loose. She shot over the edge of that dark smooth subterranean waterfall, hung a long breathless moment between still air and falling water, slid down like a flash, dashed into the stream below, shuddered, reeled, righted herself and sped on. You have perhaps been down the water chute at Earl’s Court? It was rather like that.

      “It’s—it’s all right,” said Philip, in a rather shaky whisper. “She’s going on all right.”

      “Yes,” said Lucy, holding his arm very tight; “yes, I’m sure she’s going on all right.”

      “Are we drowned?” said a trembling squeak. “Oh, Max, are we really drowned?”

      “I don’t think so,” Max replied with caution. “And if we are, my dear, we cannot undrown ourselves by screams.”

      “Far from it,” said the parrot, who had for the moment been rendered quite speechless by the shock. And you know a parrot is not made speechless just by any little thing. “So we may just as well try to behave,” it said.

      The lamps had certainly behaved, and behaved beautifully; through the wild air of the fall, the wild splash as the Lightning Loose struck the stream below, the lamps had shone on, seemingly undisturbed.

      “An example to us all,” said the parrot.

      “Yes, but,” said Lucy, “what are we to do?”

      “When adventures take a turn one is far from expecting, one does what one can,” said the parrot.

      “And what’s that?”

      “Nothing,” said the parrot. “Philip has relieved Max at the helm and is steering a straight course between the banks—if you can call them banks. There is nothing else to be done.”

      There plainly wasn’t. The Lightning Loose rushed on through the darkness. Lucy

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