“Stand by and help me hold the line,” he directed the two boys as his brother adjusted the bowline about him and attached the basket to the rope.
Filled with amazement that any mortal would dare to be lowered over the cliff on the slender line, the boys braced themselves against the rocks and took a firm grasp of the rope as Getty, a broad grin on his freckled face, threw himself upon the ground, and wriggling backwards, let his legs and body drop over the verge of the cliff. For an instant he held on by one hand. Paul and the boys drew the rope taut, and at Getty’s cry of “Lower away!” they slowly paid out the line.
“Guess he’s pretty well down,” remarked Paul, after many feet of the rope had slipped over the edge. “Just hold fast a minute and I’ll see.” Walking to the verge, he called down to his brother and the boys could hear Getty’s reply thin and far away.
“Easy now and stand by when I give the word,” ordered Paul, and, a moment later, “Hold fast! Ease off a bit! All right! Come on and see him.”
Leaving the rope, which was now slack, Tom and Jim joined Paul and peered down. There, far below them, and crouching on a narrow shelf on To’gallant Rock, was Getty, rapidly gathering the sea-birds’ eggs and fighting off the screaming birds that half hid him as they wheeled above his head. From where they were watching, Getty looked like a mere speck and the rock appeared so smooth and perpendicular that it seemed impossible that any human being could find foothold upon it. But even as they looked, Getty stood up, and flattening himself against the rocks, commenced walking around the precipice above the thundering surf. The boys held their breath, expecting each moment to see him miss his footing and fall dangling at the end of the rope, but he calmly continued on his way, stooping now and again as he reached a nest, until at last, looking up, he waved his hand to the boys at the summit of the island.
“Got his basket full up,” announced Paul. “Come on, let’s haul him up.”
Gathering in the slack of the rope, the boys strained and pulled, one of them constantly holding the slack with a turn around the stake, until presently, they heard Getty’s voice, and making the line fast, Paul hurried to the edge of the cliff, leaned over, and lifted up the basket full of eggs. A moment later, Getty pulled himself up on the rope and onto the solid ground.
“Gee, but you have got nerve!” cried Jim. “I wouldn’t do that for anything.”
“Would if you lived on Tristan,” laughed Getty. “Dad says as folk can get used to anything, ’cept dying. All us boys go down to To’gallant Rock.”
“’Tain’t arf so bad’s Ol’ Snorter,” added Paul. “Got to swing right in under there, first out an’ then in like, an’ the rope gets a-twistin’ most fearful. Folk don’t let us boys try that.”