The Island Stallion by Walter Farley

there no end to this descent? they asked themselves over and over again. Did it end nowhere? Yet the air remained fresh. It had been almost an hour since they had last seen a ventilation shaft running hundreds and hundreds of feet up to the surface. They had stood beneath it a long time, gazing fixedly at the small patch of blue sky above. Yes, it was blue now instead of gray. They had noticed that immediately. The rain must have come and gone, then. They had talked about it at length before giving up their patch of blue for the blackness ahead.
    Much later they came to another tunnel, where Pitch slipped to the floor, saying, “I’m almost whipped, Steve. I’d like to rest awhile.”
    Slowly Steve stretched out on the floor behind him,too tired to remove his pack. “We’ll rest, Pitch, as you say. Later we’ll have something to eat. We’ll feel better then, much better.”
    He closed his eyes and thought of the two of them cooking their meal down here. Maybe it would be a record of some kind. “The World’s Finest Underground Meal,” he thought morosely. It would make a good story to tell the fellows back home. Yes, he’d say, we had chipped beef and beans cooked just right over our Sterno stove. Steve opened his eyes as he thought of the can of Sterno. “Pitch,” he said slowly, “how many cans of Sterno did we bring along?”
    “About eight.” Pitch spoke with an effort, then Steve heard him chuckle. “But I’d figured on using driftwood to cook most of our meals. That’s a laugh, isn’t it? Lots of driftwood down here, all right. Just bundles of it.”
    “At least we can use the Sterno when we’re getting low on matches,” Steve said thoughtfully. “It’s too bad we didn’t think to use a can when we first started back. We wouldn’t have lost our way then.”
    As Steve finished, Pitch’s steady breathing reached his ears. It was good that Pitch was sleeping, he thought. They both needed sleep. It probably wasn’t even dark outside yet. But it didn’t matter here. Down here one didn’t have to wait for night to fall before going to sleep. It was always night here.
    It could have been a minute or hours that Steve slept when suddenly he became conscious of a low, steady hum in his ears. He thought it was Pitch’s breathing until he realized there was no break in the sound, no interval as there would be between the deep breathsof a sleeping man. Steve opened his eyes. The hum was very low yet very distinct. He tried to place the sound; it was something he should know. It came from the tunnel to the right.
    “Pitch!”
    Steve listened again. It was still there, low and never-ending.
    “Pitch!”
    He was beginning to wonder if he actually did hear anything. He wanted somebody else to hear it. Pitch had to hear it!
    “Pitch!” Frantically Steve climbed to his feet and shook Pitch’s leg until he awakened.
    “Listen, Pitch! Do you hear it?”
    Pitch sat up but said nothing.
    The low humming swept through Steve’s ears until he couldn’t stand Pitch’s silence any longer. “You hear it, Pitch! You do hear it, don’t you?” His voice was pleading, entreating.
    “I think I hear something,” Pitch said slowly. “I’m not quite sure, though. My ears …”
    “It is a low, humming sound, Pitch? Do you think it might get louder if we walked down that tunnel to the right?” Steve was almost in a frenzy. He wished he could see Pitch. He would be able to tell by his eyes whether or not Pitch was saying he
did
hear something just to agree with him. But he couldn’t see Pitch.
    “Steve!” Pitch’s voice was raised, excited. “I do hear it now. It sounds almost like water—rushing water!”
    “Yes, that’s it!” Steve yelled, moving past Pitch. “It’s a stream!” He was already on his way down thetunnel when Pitch rose from the floor and hurriedly followed.
    Steve was in a half-run when his outstretched hands banged against a wall in front of him. “A match, Pitch. Quick!” he