Tommy’s foot found the iron rung of a ladder, and he turned to face the cold stone wall. He grasped the lip of the well and lowered himself down the ladder. He hoped it wasn’t rusted through.
‘Take care, Tommy!’ Martin cried. His voice echoed down the dark shaft.
As Tommy descended, the darkness and cold closed around him. The kerosene lamp made an eerie circle of light. The walls were slimy and the rungs of the ladder rough with rust. Down he went: down, down, down. Down into cold, damp, echoey darkness.
Suddenly his foot splashed into icy water. ‘I’m here!’ he shouted.
‘I’m sending down a bucket!’ The Constable’s voice boomed down into the darkness. Tommy heard a creaking as the winch turned, and a bucket on a rope came hurtling down past him and splashed onto the water at his feet.
Tommy clung onto the ladder with one hand and unhooked the lamp from his belt with his free hand. He held the lamp high and peered into the water.
‘Can you see it?’ Mr Bruun’s voice tunnelled down the well.
‘Not yet!’ Tommy shouted. He moved the light around and squinted. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the dimness. Gradually a dark shape emerged at the bottom of the well.
‘Hold on!’ he cried. ‘I think I see it!’
Tommy hooked the lamp onto a rung of the ladder and stretched out to reach the bucket that was bobbing on the water. He tipped the bucket on its side and let it fill with water. He watched as it sunk to the bottom. The bucket lay on the floor of the well, only centimetres from the gun. Tommy grasped the rope and pulled it towards him, dragging the bucket across closer to the gun.
Come on, he whispered as he tried to scoop the gun into the bucket. The bucket chased the dark shape of the gun around as Tommy jiggled the rope, but the gun remained on the floor of the well.
‘It won’t go in!’ he yelled in frustration.
‘Keep trying!’ Ludwig begged.
He tried for ten more minutes, but he just couldn’t get the gun into the bucket. The rough ladder rung hurt his hand, and his arm ached as he stretched out across the water.
Tommy took a deep breath. There was only one solution.
‘I’m going into the water!’ he shouted.
‘No!’ cried Martin. ‘Tommy, it’s too dangerous!’
But Tommy had made up his mind. He released the rope and climbed down another rung. The icy water gripped his ankles and he gasped. He was just about to dive into the water when he remembered his hat. If it came off in the water, he’d be sent back to the present and he’d never find the gun! Tommy reached into his pocket and drew out the red neckerchief. Holding one end of it in his mouth, he wrapped the neckerchief up around his hat and back under his chin. With clumsy, trembling fingers, he tied the scarf into a knot under his chin, fastening the hat onto his head. He was ready to go.
Tommy let go his grip on the ladder and plunged into the water.
It was freezing! Tommy dove downwards into the darkness. He groped around on the slimy floor of the well. Where was the gun? He opened his eyes but the water was murky and dim. His fingers brushed against the bucket. He felt around it, finding the opening, and fumbling on the ground in front of the bucket where he knew the gun must be lying. Just as he felt that his lungs would burst, there it was! A cold, hard shape: a gun!
Tommy grabbed the gun and did a flip to put his feet on the floor of the well. He sprang, propelling himself up to the surface. He burst through, gasping for air.
‘I’ve got it!’ he shouted.
‘Hurray!’ cried Ludwig.
‘Woohoo!’ Martin hooted. ‘Now, come back, Tommy – please!’
Shaking with cold and relief, Tommy swam to the wall of the well and grasped the iron rung. He climbed up to the lamp, his arms and legs wobbling with the effort.
When he reached the lamp, Tommy put the gun between his teeth, untied the lamp and retied it to his belt. Then he made the long slow climb back up to daylight, where a circle of faces peered down anxiously at him.
Even the Constable seemed pleased. ‘Well done, boy,’ he patted Tommy’s soggy shoulder as he hauled the shivering boy out of the well. ‘Good job!’ The policeman cocked his head to the side, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘Interesting,’ he went on, ‘that the gun was thrown into a well right next to Scott’s house! ’
‘We’ve got him!’ Mr Sly said, patting Tommy on the back. ‘Well done, Tommy!’
‘That’s it then,’ Constable Monckton said. ‘We’ve got enough evidence to prove that Andrew George Scott is “Captain Moonlite”. We’ve got enough to show that he was the one who robbed poor Ludwig!’
There was nothing more to be done, he assured Tommy and Martin. The boys were free to go. Ludwig shook Tommy’s hand; he was too emotional to speak. Mr Bruun hugged Tommy and tut-tutted when he felt how cold and wet Tommy was.
‘Go home and get into some warm clothes, my boy,’ he said.
Tommy was more than happy to do as he was told. The boys waved and waited until the adults were out of sight. Then they sat down so that Martin could remove his boots, and on the count of three, Tommy whisked the hat off his head and Martin slipped his feet out of the boots. And everything went dim.
Back at the motel, Martin munched on his muesli bar. When Tommy drew his sodden muesli bar out of his pocket, the red neckerchief tumbled out as well. Tommy picked it up and looked at it thoughtfully.
‘You know …’ he began. ‘I wonder …’
Martin took the cloth from Tommy and a smile lit his eyes. He knew what
