Pigeon Post by Arthur Ransome

Author:Arthur Ransome
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781446483145
Publisher: Random House UK
Published: 2011-06-30T04:00:00+00:00

ROGER IN THE MINE

CHAPTER XX

WHAT’S BECOME OF HIM?

IF it had been earlier in the day somebody would have noticed at once that there was a gap in the line and that one of the prospectors was missing. But the day had been long and very hot, and by the end of the afternoon even Nancy was not as strict as she had been. Again and again the line had been broken when somebody had found something or other and all the others had come together to see what it was. It had never been anything worth looking at, from the mining point of view, and the prospectors had spread out again to go on with the combing of the Topps, feeling more and more disheartened. They had come to spreading out anyhow, in no particular order, so that each time people had different next-door neighbours. When Roger slipped into hiding he had been next to Nancy, but when Nancy next looked that way and called out to John it never occurred to either that there ought to have been someone else between the two of them. It was growing late, and they were back at the side of the Topps above the valley of the Amazon, and Nancy had at last agreed that they had done enough, when the discovery was made. They had come to the place where they had dumped their knapsacks after the midday meal. One by one they stiffly twisted their arms through the straps, ready for the short walk home along the edge of the moorland. The pile of knapsacks grew smaller, until of all the eight only one was left.

“Hullo! Where’s Roger?” said Titty.

“Roger!”

“Roger, ahoy!”

“Come on. Don’t start lurking. We’re going home,” said Peggy.

“Grub!” shouted John. “Hurry up!”

But no tousled head of Roger bobbed up from behind rock or heather or bracken. There was not a sign of him to be seen.

“He’s just sloped,” said John.

“He’s a bit tired of prospecting,” said Susan.

“Poor old Rogie,” said John, by way of apology to Nancy, “he’s always in a hurry, you know … getting out the oars the moment the wind drops.”

“I know what he’s done,” said Peggy. “I bet he’s gone scouting down to the bracken opposite Atkinson’s gate, to see Squashy come prancing home.”

All day there had been no sign of Squashy Hat on the Topps. Again and again the prospectors had looked up to the white painted patches on the rocks of Grey Screes, expecting to see their rival, and listening for the tapping of his hammer. Except for the creaking flight of a family of wild swans far overhead, and the occasional protests of startled grouse, they might have been the only living things in that deserted wilderness. This had been good from the prospecting point of view, but, as the prospecting had been unsuccessful and duller than usual because no longer new and, in spite of Nancy’s faith, becoming less and less hopeful, they had almost been sorry that Squashy Hat had not been there.

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