Taffy caught up a coil of rope, sprang into a boat, and pushed across to land. “Don’t move!” he shouted. At the foot of the cliff he picked up Joey’s crutch and ran at full speed up the path worn by the workmen. This led him round to the verge ten feet above the ledge where the child clung white and silent. He looped the rope in a running noose and lowered it.
“Slip this under your arms. Can you manage, or shall I come down? I’ll come if you’re hurt.”
“I’ve twisted my foot. It’s all right, now you’re come,” said the little man bravely; and slid the rope round himself in the most business-like way.
“The grass was slipper—” he began, as soon as his feet touched firm earth: and with that he broke down and fell to sobbing in Taffy’s arms.
Taffy carried him—a featherweight—to the cottage where Lizzie stood by her table washing up. She saw them at the gate and came running out.
“It’s all right. He slipped—out on the cliff. Nothing more than a scratch or two, and perhaps a sprained ankle.”
He watched while she set Joey in a chair and began to pull off his stockings. He had never seen the child’s foot naked. She turned suddenly, caught him looking, and pulled the stocking back over the deformity.
“Have you heard?” she asked.
“What?”
“She has a boy! Ah!” she laughed harshly, “I thought that would hurt you. Well, you have been a silly!”