Heavily the windlass creaked. Mightily the Chinee strained. The
unconscious figure was drawn out of the water and up the shaft,
inch by inch. The weight of a man in wet clothes is considerably
more than that of a bucket of water, and it seemed a certainty that
either the old windlass would break or the Chinaman's arms give
out. Slowly, slowly, the limp wet figure ascended the shaft, while
Hugh supported himself in the water, by gripping the logs at the
side of the well, praying that the tackle would hold. The creaking
of the windlass ceased, and the ascending body stopped--evidently
the Chinee was pausing to get his breath.
"Go on!" screamed Hugh. "Keep at it, John! Don't let it beat you!
Wind away!"
Faintly came the gasped reply, "No can! No more can do!"
He lowered himself in the water as far as he could, to deaden
the blow in case of the fellow falling back on him, and screamed
encouragement, threats, and promises up the well. 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. Grimly he kept at it, and drew nearer and
nearer to the top. Then, at last, a hand seized him; half-sick
with over-exertion, he struggled out and fell gasping to the ground.
For a minute or two the universe was turning round with him. The
Chinee and the strange white man moved in a kind of flicker, unreal
as the figures in a cinematograph. Then all was blank for a while.