Part 26 (2/2)

”Yes,” said Joe, ”it's better than going up the shaft; the ladders look so wet, and the water drops upon you. I saw it dripping yesterday.

Come on.”

He stepped into the adit, and Gwyn followed.

”Don't want a light, I s'pose?” said Hardock.

”Oh, no; we shall see the suns.h.i.+ne directly,” said Gwyn; and the two boys retraced their wet steps, soon caught sight of the light s.h.i.+ning in, and made their way out to the platform, where they sat down in the suns.h.i.+ne to wipe their feet with their handkerchiefs, and then put on socks and boots, each giving his feet a stamp as he rose erect.

”Isn't the water cold! My feet are like ice,” said Joe.

”They'll soon get warm climbing up these ladders,” said Gwyn. ”But steady! Don't jump about; this platform doesn't seem any too safe.

I'll ask father to have the stout rail put round. Shall I go first?”

”No; you came down first,” said Joe. ”My turn now. But I say, I'd a deal rather go up and down in a bucket. What a height it seems.”

”Well, make it less,” said Gwyn. ”Up with you! don't stand looking at it. I want to be at the top.”

”So do I,” said Joe, as he stood holding on by one of the rounds of the ladder, they two and the platform looking wonderfully small on the face of that immense cliff; the platform bearing a striking resemblance to some little bracket nailed against a wall, and occupied by two sparrows.

Then, uttering a low sigh, Joe began to mount steadily, and as soon as he was a dozen feet up, Gwyn followed him.

”It doesn't do to look upwards, does it?” said Joe, suddenly, when they had been climbing for about half-a-minute.

”Well, don't think about it, then. And don't talk. You want all your breath for a job like this.”

Joe was silent, and the only sounds heard were the sc.r.a.ping of their boots on the wooden spells, and the crying of the gulls squabbling over some wave-tossed weed far below.

Then, all at once, when he was about half-way up, Joe suddenly stopped short, but Gwyn did not notice it till his cap was within a few inches of the other's boots.

”Well, go on,” he cried cheerily. ”What's the matter--out of breath?”

”No.”

”Eh? What is it--what's the matter?” said Gwyn, for he was startled by the tone in which the word was uttered.

”I--I don't know,” came back in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, which sent a shudder through Gwyn, as he involuntarily glanced down at the awful depth beneath him. ”It's the cold water, I think. One of my feet has gone dead, and the other's getting numb. Gwyn! Gwyn! Here, quick! I don't know what I'm--Quick!--help! I'm going to fall!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

GWYN SHOWS HIS METTLE.

Too much horrified for the moment even to speak, Gwyn grasped the sides of the ladder with spasmodic strength; his eyes dilated, his jaw dropped, and he clung there completely paralysed. Then his mental balance came back as suddenly as he had lost it, and feeling once more the strong, healthy lad he was, it came to him like a flash that it was impossible that Joe Jollivet, his companion in hundreds of rock-climbing expeditions--where they had successfully made their way along places which would have given onlookers what is known as ”the creeps,”--could be in the danger he described, and with a merry laugh, he cried,--

”Get out! Go on, you old humbug, or I'll get a pin out of my waistcoat and give you the spur.”

There was no response.

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