“Don’t lose it,” he muttered foggily.
“Lose what?”
“Your pieces of eight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t touched— Val, do—do you feel worse?”
But he had no thought now for his body. If Ricky had not dropped the money, then what had caused the clink?
He ground his cheek against the clay. Thud. thud, clink, thud. That was not water dripping nor coin rattling. That was the sound of digging. And digging meant— “Ricky! They’re digging! I can hear them!”
Her fingers closed about his free hand until the nails dug into the flesh. “Where?”
“I don’t know. Listen!”
The sound had grown in strength until now, though muffled, it sounded through that part of the passage still remaining open.
“It comes from this end. From behind that wall. But why should it come from there?”
“Does it matter? Val, do you suppose they could hear me if I pounded on the wall at this side?”
“You haven’t anything heavy enough to pound with.”
“Yes, I have. This package thing that you found. It’s quite heavy. Val, we’ve got to let them know we’re here!”
She crawled away, moving with caution lest she bring on another slide. That reassuring thud, thud still sounded.
Then, after long minutes, Val heard the answering blow from their side. Three times Ricky struck before the rhythm of the digging was broken. Then there was silence followed by three sharp blows. They had heard!
Ricky beat a perfect tattoo in joy and was quickly answered. Then the thud, thud began again, but this time the pace was quickened.
“They’ve heard! They’re coming!” Ricky’s voice shrilled until it became a scream. “Val, we’re found!”
A clod was loosened somewhere above them and crashed upon the wreckage. Would the efforts of their rescuers bring on another slide?
“Be quiet, Ricky,” Val croaked a warning, “it’s still moving.”
Then there came the sharp clink of metal against stone.
“Val,” called Ricky, “they’re right against the wall now!”
“Come back here, away from it. We—we don’t want you caught, too,” he answered her.
Obediently she crawled back to him and again he felt her hand close about his. The sound of metal grating against stubborn brick filled their pocket of safety. But as an ominous accompaniment came the soft hiss of earth sliding onto the wreckage. Which would win to them first, the rescuers or the second slide?
There was a vicious grinding noise from the walled end of the passage. A moment later a blinding ray of light swung in, to focus upon them.
“Ricky! Val!”
Val was blinking stupidly at the light, but Ricky had presence of mind enough to answer.
“Here we are!”
“Look out,” Val roused enough to warn, “the walls are unsafe!”
“We’re coming through,” rang the answer out of the dark. “Stand away!”
Now that they could see, Val realized for me first time the danger of their position. A jagged, water-rotten beam half covered with clay and sand lay across him, and beyond mat was a mass of splintered wood and wet earth. A little sick, he looked up at Ricky. She was staring at the wreckage.
Her eyes were black in a white, mud-smeared face.
“Val—Val!” His name came as the thinnest of whispers.
“It isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said hurriedly. “Something underneath must be supporting most of the weight or—or I wouldn’t be here at all.”
“Val,” she repeated, and then, paying no heed to his frantic injunctions to keep away, she dug at earth and rotten wood with her hands. Using the long bundle clumsily wrapped in stained canvas, she levered a piece of beam out of the way so that she might get down on her knees and scoop up the sand and clay.
“Ricky! Val!” The light swung ahead as someone scrambled through the hole in the barrier wall. Then, when the ray held firm upon them, the headlong rush was checked for a long instant. “Val!”
“Get her—away,” he begged. “Another—slip—”
But before he had done, a long arm gathered Ricky up as if she had been a child. “Right,” came the firm answer.
“Sam, take Miss ‘Chanda back. Then—”
Val was watching the reflection of the flash on the broken roof above him. Sand slid in tiny streams down the wall, mingling with the greenish trickles of water. There were queer blue and green arcs painted on the brick which had something to do with the hot pain behind his eyes. The blue turned to orange—to scarlet— “Careful! Right here in the hall, Holmes—”
The broken earth above him had somehow been changed to a high ceiling, the chill darkness to blazing light and warmth.
“Ricky?” he asked.
“Here, Val.” Her face was very close to his.
“You—are—all—right?”
“ ‘Course!” But she was crying. “Don’t try to talk, Val. You must be quiet.”
He heard someone moving toward them but he kept his eyes on Ricky’s face. “We did it!”
“Yes,” she answered slowly, “we did it.”
“Val, don’t try to talk.” Rupert’s face showed above Ricky’s hunched shoulder. There was an odd, strained look about his mouth, a smear of mud across his cheek.
But the harsh tone of his voice struck his brother as dumb as if he had slapped him.
“Sorry,” Val shaped the words stiffly, “all my fault.”
“Nothing’s your fault,” Ricky’s indignant answer cut in. “But—but just be quiet, Val, until the doctor comes.”
He turned his head slowly. On the hearth-stone stood Charity talking quietly to Holmes. Just within the circle of the firelight lay a bundle which he had seen before. But of course, that was the thing they had found in the passage, which Ricky had used to pound out their answer to Rupert.
“Ricky—“ Val always believed that it was some instinct out of the past which forced that whisper out of him—“Ricky, open that package.”
“Why—“ she began, but then she got to her feet and went to the bundle, twisting the tarred rope that fastened it in a vain attempt to undo the intricate knots. It was Holmes who produced a knife and sawed through the tough cord.
And it was Holmes who unrolled the strips of canvas, oil-silk, and greasy skins. But it was Ricky who took up what lay within and held it out so that it reflected both red firelight and golden room light.
Her brother’s sigh was one of satisfaction.
For Ricky held aloft by its ponderous hilt a great war sword. There could be no doubt in any of them—the Luck of Lome had returned.
“We found it!” breathed Ricky.
“Put it in its place,” Val ordered.
Without a word, Rupert drew out a chair and scrambled up. Taking from Ricky’s hands the ancient weapon, he slipped it into the niche their pirate ancestor had made for it. In spite of me years underground, the metal of hilt and blade was clear. Seven hundred years of history—their Luck!
“Everything will come right again.” Val repeated as Ricky came back to him. “You’ll see. Everything—will— be—all—right.”
His eyes closed in spite of his efforts. He was back in the darkness where he could only feel the warmth of Ricky’s hands clasped about his.
RALESTONES STAND TOGETHER
“I like Louisiana,” drawled Holmes lazily from his perch on the window-seat. ‘ “The most improbable things happen here. One finds secret passages under houses and medieval war swords stuck in drains. Then there are ‘things that go boomp in the night,’ too. It might be worth settling down here—”
“Not for you,” cut in Charity briskly. “Too far from the bright lights for you, my man.”
“Just for that,” he triumphed, “I shall not return this lost property found under a cushion of the couch in the hall.”
At the sight of that familiar black note-book, Val shifted uneasily on his pillows. Rupert got up.
“Tired, old man?” he asked and reached to straighten one of his brother’s feather-stuffed supports.
Val shook his head. Being bandaged like a mummy was wearying, but one had to humor two broken ribs and a fractured collar-bone.
“Sometimes,” replied Charity, “you are just too clever, Mr. Judson Holmes. That does not happen to be my property.”
“No?” He flipped it open and held it up so that she might see what lay within. “I’ll admit that it isn’t your usual sort of stuff, but—”
She was staring at the drawings. “No, that isn’t mine. But who—”
Ricky got up from the end of Val’s cot and went to look. Then she turned, her eyes shining with excitement.
“You’re trying them again! But, Val, you said you never would.”
“Give me that book!” he ordered grimly. But Rupert had calmly collected the trophy and was turning over the pages one by one. Val made a horrible face at Ricky and resigned himself to the inevitable.
“How long have you been doing this sort of thing?” his brother asked as he turned the last page.
“Ever so long,” Ricky answered for Val brightly. “He used to draw whole letters from them when we were at school. There were two sets, one for good days and the other for bad.”