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 reflected for a moment and then made cocoa. This was real heroism. It cheered every one up, including the cocoa-maker herself. It was impossible to believe that anything dreadful was going to happen when you were making that soft, sweet, ordinary drink.
“I say,” Philip remarked when she carried a cup to him at the wheel, “I’ve been thinking. All this is out of a book. Some one must have let it out. I know what book it’s out of too. And if the whole story got out of the book we’re all right. Only we shall go on for ages and climb out at last, three days’ journey from Trieste.”
“I see,” said Lucy, and added that she hated geography. “Drink your cocoa while it’s hot,” she said in motherly accents, and “what book is it?”
“It’s The Last Cruise of the Teal,” he said. “Helen gave it me just before she went away. It’s a ripping book, and I used it for the roof of the outer court of the Hall of Justice. I remember it perfectly. The chaps on the Teal made torches of paper soaked in paraffin.”
“We haven’t any,” said Lucy; “besides our lamps light everything up all right. Oh! there’s Brenda crying again. She hasn’t a shadow of pluck.”
She went quickly to the cabin where Max was trying to cheer Brenda by remarks full of solid good sense, to which Brenda paid no attention whatever.
“I knew how it would be,” she kept saying in a whining voice; “I told you so from the beginning. I wish we hadn’t come. I want to go home. Oh! what a dreadful thing to happen to dear little dogs.”
“Brenda,” said Lucy firmly, “if you don’t stop whining you shan’t have any cocoa.”
Brenda stopped at once and wagged her tail appealingly.
“Cocoa?” she said, “did any one say cocoa? My nerves are so delicate. I know I’m a trial,
