The End of the Tunnel

by Paul Capon

  “What was?”

  “Why, breaking my fall like that.”

  “Don’t be silly, Tom. I just wasn’t quick enough to get out of the way.”

  Ruth denied this fiercely. “Tom, don’t you believe him!” she cried. “He saw you were falling and threw himself forward.”

  “I know,” said Tom quietly, “and but for him I’d probably have broken a leg. Anyway, what happened? Did the line break?”

  “Guess so,” said Boyd. “All I saw was you clawing at the rock, then falling.”

  Ruth had picked up the flashlight when Boyd dropped it, and Tom took it from her. He found the line and examined it. The point of rock it had been fixed to must have broken away — that was the only explanation.

  Jane finished dressing Boyd’s wound, and he joined Tom. “The rock broke,” Tom murmured. “That’s what happened.”

  They exchanged glances, realizing, even if the girls did not, how serious the position was. Unless they managed to scale that face of rock, they were trapped. And there was small hope of rescue. . . .

  For more than an hour they tried every way they could think of to get up to the higher level. They tried scaling the rock face, they tried climbing the tunnel walls at its side, they tried getting up on one another’s shoulders, they tried throwing the line up in hope that it would lasso another point of rock, they tried building a ramp of boulders against the rock face, but everything they tried ended in failure.

  Finally Tom called a halt, and they held a council of war.

  “We’re getting nowhere fast,” said Tom in as cheerful a voice as he could manage. “Has anyone any suggestions?”

  The girls shook their heads, and Boyd said, “Well, I guess this ramp would work if we gave it plenty of time. So far we’ve just been throwing up a pile of stones any old way, and it just isn’t getting us anywhere. If we took our time and dragged in all the big boulders we could find, then really built it — well, then I guess it would work.”

  No one seemed very hopeful. One of the things that worried Tom was the shortage of supplies. They had eaten the meat pie and sandwiches, and had only a few plums, oranges and bananas, three bottles of lemonade and two of Coca-Cola left. So far they were all right for light — the flashlight was still bright, and they had plenty of half-used candles — but Tom did not think they had enough to see Boyd’s plan through as well as to get them out of the cave.

  “I’ve a suggestion,” he said, “but I don’t know if there’s anything in it. This tunnel runs due west, and also due west of Orleigh are the Ridgefield Quarries. Well, I think it’s possible that the two may link up. An old gardener we had once told me that the quarries ran underground for miles and miles, and hardly anyone knew exactly where they went.”

  “How far is this Ridgefield from Orleigh?” asked Boyd.

  “Only two or three miles.”

  Boyd stood up. “Oh, well, then,” he said, “it’s worth trying. What do you say, girls?”

  “All right,” said Ruth and got up. “It’d be better than just sitting here.”

  Jane also struggled to her feet. “O.K.,” she murmured and tried to hide a yawn. She was tired, but she was determined not to give in and also determined not to let the others know how frightened she was.

  This time, when they moved off along the tunnel, they didn’t walk in single file, but bunched close together. The two girls unobtrusively held hands. They spoke very little, and when they passed the spot where they had found the coins no one remarked on it. That incident seemed to belong to a different life altogether, and they were not anxious to remember how happy they had been such a short while before.

  The tunnel seemed to go on and on without any noticeable change in its character. Tom had the good sense to count his paces. He decided if he reckoned two thousand paces to the mile, he would not be far off, and on that reckoning four thousand paces should take them to the neighborhood of Ridgefield Quarries. Provided, of course, that the tunnel continued to run due west.

  Boyd was the first to break the silence. “Hold it a minute, please, Tom,” he said, slowing down. “I want to have a look at the time. It was exactly twenty to five when we set out.”

  They all stopped, and Tom shone the light on Boyd’s watch. The time was now nine minutes past five; they had been walking nearly half an hour.

  “That checks more or less,” said Tom. “Since we started, we’ve walked exactly 2,417 paces. I’ve been counting.”

  “Then we must be getting pretty near Ridgefield Quarries,” Boyd said.

  “Yes, not too far away from — ”

  “Listen!” Jane hissed, interrupting Tom.

  All four stood listening, and a sound came that at first was so faint they thought they must be imagining it. However, it grew louder and louder until it became a gentle rumble.

  “Earth tremor?” whispered Boyd, a native son of California.

  Tom shook his head. “Don’t think so. We almost never have them in England.”

  The sound increased in volume and seemed to be coming from beneath them. It was too light a noise really to frighten them. It was a rumble all right, but the sort of rumble roller skates make on concrete, and it was muffled. It grew louder, reached its peak with a rush, then dwindled. It became fainter and fainter, but the foursome did not speak until every trace had faded and the tunnel was again quiet.

  Finally Ruth commented, “It sounded like a tiny train. Actually, it sounded like several of those little railroad cars they use in quarries. You know the thing I mean.”

  “But, Ruth,” Tom said, “the Ridgefield Quarries haven’t been worked for nearly a hundred years.”

  “I don’t care. I only said that’s what it sounded like to me.”

  “It came from below us,” said Boyd, “and a little ahead. Let’s light some candles and see what we can find.”

  Tom and Ruth took one side of the tunnel, and Boyd and Jane the other. They worked their way along, looking for a break in the tunnel wall. Tom argued that unless there was a hole of some sort they would not have heard the sound so clearly.

  For almost half an hour they crept slowly along the walls, examining every inch by candlelight, then Tom decided they had gone far enough and called a halt.

  “No luck,” he muttered, joining Boyd and Jane in the middle of the tunnel. “Not even a crack.”

  “We found a crack, all right,” said Boyd, “but that’s all. It was only about an inch wide, but I guess maybe that’s where the sound came from.”

  Tom gazed at him thoughtfully for a couple of seconds, then said, “Let’s have a look.”

  The crack was only a few yards back. As Boyd had said, it was nothing to get excited about. It ran vertically up the wall, tapering at both ends, and for only about a foot of its length was it as much as an inch wide. Tom shone the flashlight into it and could see nothing except blackness. He put his ear to it and heard nothing, yet he had the impression that beyond the crack there was an empty space rather than solid rock. He picked up a pebble and threw it with all his strength into the crack. The pebble hit a surface, bounced off to hit another, and then apparently came to rest against a third — and by then the explorers were becoming excited.

  “There’s a sort of cavity through there,” said Tom. “Ruth, help me get the entrenching tool, and I’ll see if I can make the crack wider.”

  Tom gripped the entrenching tool firmly, and, swinging it as if it were a pickax, he struck a heavy blow at the edge of the crack, splintering the rock. He slipped the tool into the crack to pry out the splinters. If the children lived to be a thousand years old, they would not forget what happened next.

  A solid four-foot-wide section of the tunnel wall trembled, then moved as if it were on a pivot at one side. It moved only a foot or so, but it was enough to change the foursome’s weariness to energy.

  Jane gasped. “A secret door! Won’t it open any farther, Tom?”

  Tom, gripping the edge of the rock, was struggling to move it, but after the ea
sy start, it was as stubborn as a mule. Boyd joined him and their efforts succeeded in moving it another two or three inches. Evidently the door had not been used for many years, perhaps centuries, and clouds of dust rewarded the boys’ attempts to get it open. They rested a few minutes, then tried again, moving it another inch. Tom decided that was enough.

  “We can squeeze though all right,” he said, then picked up the flashlight and peered into the opening. “There’s a little room with steps leading from it,” he said. “I think we should explore it, at least.”

  “O.K., Tom. You go first,” Boyd said.

  Before Tom could squeeze through the narrow opening, he had to take off his rucksack. He slipped through, and Boyd handed him the flashlight.

  The place was not much larger than a telephone booth, and the steps led down in a narrow curve.

  “It’s quite safe,” he told Boyd. “Come on. You’ll have to take off your rucksacks and pass them through first.”

  The girls joined Tom, then Boyd handed the rucksacks through and slipped through himself. By the time all of the foursome were in the little room, there was less empty space than in a subway during the rush hour. After they had their rucksacks settled on their shoulders again, they stood looking down the steps.

  “Ready, everyone?” Tom asked. As he turned to lead the way, the flashlight beam moved over the wall.

  “Look, Tom! What’s that?” Ruth sounded excited.

  “What?”

  “There, on the wall. Look. Some carved letters.”

  Tom played the beam over the wall and stopped when it fell on the inscription. He stepped closer and exclaimed, “You’re right, Ruth!”

  The inscription had been cut into the rock with care, the letters well formed and the spacing even:

  MARCUS PAULUS

  fecit

  MCCXXVIII AUC

  “The Romans must have made this place! Why, this is a sort of mason’s mark in Latin!” Tom’s astonishment could be heard in his voice.

  “Tell us what it says,” Ruth demanded.

  “It just says, ‘Marcus the Little made this,’ and then there’s a date. Give me a minute to work it out.”

  “Marcus the Little,” murmured Jane. “Yes, he’d have to be little to make this place!”

  Tom was still struggling to decipher the date. “I think it’s 1228,” he said.

  “But, Tom,” Ruth said protestingly, “that wouldn’t be the Romans-1228 is Henry the Third.”

  “Don’t be silly. This means 1,228 years from the founding of Rome; that would be about 500 A.D. by our calendar.”

  “Hey, you two,” yelled Boyd. “It’s getting late, and we’re still not home, remember.”

  “You’re right, Boyd. Let’s go, everyone,” Tom said and started down the steps.

  There were so many steps that it seemed that they would go on spiraling down forever. It was slow going, and the flashlight no longer gave a good beam, making them doubly cautious. It must have been a long time since the steps were last used, for there was a thick layer of dust on them and no sign that it had been disturbed.

  Tom noticed that the air was fresher than it had been in the upper tunnel. There the air had seemed moldy and dead, but here they could feel a cool draft and a hint of moisture.

  Suddenly the steps ended at a short, narrow passage, and there was level rock underfoot.

  “There may be another secret door,” said Tom, flashing the light along the walls of the passage. “Keep your eyes open.”

  “I expect we’ll come out in the old Romans’ treasure house,” said Ruth. “I bet there’ll be silver and gold and rubies and diamonds as far as the eye can see!”

  “I’d settle for a T-bone steak,” muttered Boyd. “I have never been so hungry in my life.”

  They were nearing the end of the passage and Tom stopped. “Here we are,” he said, pointing. “We can crawl through there.”

  Evidently there had once been another secret door, but at some time the rock forming it had been forced and broken, leaving a narrow gap shaped like an inverted V. Now, crouching low, Tom scrambled through it. The others followed, and found themselves in another tunnel nearly as large as the one above.

  “What is — ” began Ruth, then broke off as the weak flashlight beam gleamed dully along a strip of metal. They rushed forward and stopped abruptly, staring at the tracks of a narrow-gauge railway.

  “Keep back!” cried Tom. “There’s a live rail.”

  He was right. On the far side of the track was a third rail, and since it was mounted on insulators there was no doubt as to its purpose. All three rails were bright and shiny with constant use, and this proof of the nearness of other human beings exhilarated the explorers.

  “Let’s eat the rest of the food,” said Ruth. “And then get out!”

  Tom hesitated. “I don’t know that we ought to lose any more time,” he said. “Mummy’ll be getting worried — ”

  “She won’t start worrying until about eight, and long before then we shall have phoned her from Ridgefield. Come on, folks! Lights, candles, food!”

  Tom gave in gracefully, but he was not too happy. For one thing, he was puzzled. He had heard a little about Ridgefield Quarries, but no one had ever mentioned an electric railway. In fact, the quarries had been abandoned before such things as electric trains had even been thought of.

  CHAPTER 5

  The three younger members had a great time picnicking beside the railway tracks and examining the ancient coins, but Tom was preoccupied and silent.

  At first he thought the mysterious railway might have some connection with secret defense works, which would explain why he had never heard of it, but, when he examined it closely, he found nothing very new about it. It was well constructed and in good condition, but the rails showed a lot of wear and the ties were soaked with oil that had dropped from passing trains.

  He mentioned this to the others, but they were not in the mood to be serious.

  “It’s an old Roman railway, that’s what,” said Ruth gaily. “Marcus the Little made it, and that’s why it’s so small!”

  She was about to pry the top from the last bottle of lemonade when Tom stopped her. “Just a minute, Ruthie,” he said, “I want to use that as a spirit level.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Jane.

  “I want to find out which way the gradient runs. We’d look silly if we walked the wrong direction, wouldn’t we?”

  “Oh, yes. Don’t let’s get any deeper,” Ruth said.

  Tom rested the bottle on the nearest rail. The air space in the bottle stayed in the neck. He turned the bottle around, and the air space moved to its base.

  “Well, that’s obvious. Up is that way,” said Tom, pointing.

  “Good,” said Ruth. “Now let’s drink the spirit level and get going.”

  Boyd was gazing at the roof of the tunnel. “You know, there are cables up there,” he said, “and a sort of tube that might be a ventilation shaft. I agree with you, Tom. This is more than a tunnel in a quarry. There’s too much gear.

  “Maybe it’s just an ordinary railroad,” said Jane. “You have some little railroads in England, haven’t you, Tom?”

  Tom was strapping up his rucksack. “None in this part of the country,” he told her. “And, anyway, this is exceptionally small. The gauge is less than two feet.”

  “I wish another train would come along,” said Ruth. “Then perhaps we could ride. My legs are tired.” She stood still, listening, but the tunnel was as silent as a tomb; with a sigh, she heaved her rucksack to her back and prepared to move off.

  The next part of the journey was not very exciting. The foursome felt they had had their adventure, and now more than anything else they wanted to go home. The flashlight was so dim it was almost useless, but Tom held it close to the tunnel wall and they followed the weak reflection. There was no risk of their blundering into the live rail or of their being hurt by a train — the tunnel was too wide for that. With no element of
danger to keep them alert, they were practically walking in their sleep, their thoughts on hot baths, clean clothes and enormous suppers.

  As they came to a sweeping bend in the tunnel, they realized that the darkness was growing less.

  “Daylight!” Ruth exclaimed. “Come on, everyone, let’s run.”

  Their weariness vanished, and with Ruth leading they broke into a jog trot. The tunnel straightened, and they saw that it wasn’t daylight ahead, but a blaze of electric light.

  “Never mind, kids,” said Boyd. “This is a railhead all right. I guess we’ll find an elevator to take us to the surface. Or, anyway, some stairs.”

  They slowed down, and the girls joined hands again, for there was something strangely uninviting about the place they were approaching. It was a great, domed man-made cavern with smoothly cemented walls and ceiling, and beneath the dome the railway branched into five separate, short tracks, each ending with a buffer. On one of these switches stood a small train composed of a dinkey, a gondola and a small flatcar. The whole scene was garishly lighted by fluorescent units set along the walls.

  “This is a heck of a place,” Boyd muttered. “I can’t see any doors or any other way out.”

  “There must be someone here, though,” commented Tom. “The lights wouldn’t be on if there weren’t.”

  He was beginning to feel they had stepped into another world, and it was a relief to see the manufacturers’ plate on the side of the dinkey: JOHNSON & CO., LTD., COVENTRY, ENGLAND.

  Ruth and Jane made for the flatcar and sat down on it. “We’ll rest, Tom — ” Ruth yawned — ” while you boys find out how we get out.”

  “O.K.,” said Tom, getting his rucksack off and dropping it on the truck. “Come on, Boyd. Let’s see what we can find.”

  There was nothing to be found. Apparently the domed cavern was nothing more than a huge dead end.

  “There must be another secret door,” said Boyd. “Let’s try tapping the walls.”

  They acted on his suggestion but did not have much success. One section sounded hollow, and there were two vertical seams in the concrete that could have been the joint of a door, but, when the boys threw themselves against it, it did not so much as tremble. They looked around for a lever or a switch or a push button, but there was nothing.