"Yes," replied Basil, in a faint tone.
"You will have to pull yourself up by it. I will keep the rope as tight and steady as I can, and that is as much as I can do. Do you think you will be able to manage it?"
"I must try, but I feel very weak. My strength is giving way."
"Don't let it, old fellow. Pluck up courage; it's only for a few minutes, and then you will be safe at the top. Now then, with a will."
It required a will on Basil's part, he was so weak, and more than once he feared that it was all over with him; but at length the difficult feat was accomplished, and, with daylight shining once more on him, he reached the top, and was pulled from the mouth of the shaft by Chaytor's strong arms. Then, his strength quite gone, he sank lifeless to the ground.
Chaytor, gazing upon the helpless form, reflected. He had Basil's pocket-book packed safely away in an inner pocket of his waistcoat, one of those pockets which men who have anything to conceal, or who move in lawless places, have made in their garments. This book contained much that might be useful; for instance, the correct name and address of Basil's uncle in England, a statement of the debts which Basil had paid to keep his dead father's name clear from reproach, the address of the lawyers who had managed that transaction, the amount of the fortune that Basil's mother had bequeathed to him, and other such matters. Now, had Basil anything more upon his person which might be turned to account in the future? If so, this was a favourable opportunity for Chaytor to possess himself of it. There would be no difficulty in satisfactorily explaining the loss of any property which Basil had about him. In the confusion and excitement of the last few hours anything might have happened.
Having decided the point, Chaytor's unscrupulous fingers became busy, and every article in Basil's pockets passed through his hands. With the exception of a purse, he replaced everything he had taken out. This purse contained a locket with a lock of hair in it: at the back of the locket was an inscription in Basil's writing--"My dear Mother's hair," her Christian name, the date of her death, and her age. There was no money in the purse. Undoubtedly Basil, when he recovered his senses, would miss his purse, but if his pocket-book slipped out of his pocket while running, why not that? Chaytor was perfectly easy in his mind as he deposited the purse by the side of the pocket-book inside his waistcoat.
Meanwhile Basil lay motionless. "I'll carry him a little way," thought Chaytor. "Anything might drop from his clothes while he is hanging over my shoulder. I'll have as many arrows to my bow as I can manufacture. When he gets to his senses we will have a hunt for the purse and the pocket-book, and of course shall not find them." With a grim smile he raised Basil to a sitting posture, and gradually lifted him on to his shoulder. Clasping him firmly round the body, Chaytor staggered on.
Basil was no light weight, and Chaytor, while he was pursuing his dissipated life in London, had not been renowned for strength; but his colonial career had hardened his muscles, and enabled him now to perform a task which in years gone by would have been impossible. A dozen times he stopped to rest and wipe his brows. The form he carried was helpless and inert, but Basil's mind was stirred by the motion of being carried through the fresh air, and he began to babble. He thought he was upon old Corrie's mare, and he urged the animal on, muttering in disjointed and unconnected words that he must reach the township of Gum Flat that night, and be back again next day. Then he went on to babble about Annette and her father, and to a less intelligent man than Chaytor--give him credit for that--his wandering talk might have been incoherent and meaningless. But Chaytor's intellect was refined and sharpened by the possibilities of a gilded future. He listened attentively to every word that fell from Basil's fevered lips, and put meaning to them, sometimes false sometimes true.
"My friend Basil is in a delirium," said he during the intervals of Basil's muttering, "and I shall have to nurse him through a fever most likely. What with that probability, and the weight of him, I am earning my wage. No man can dispute that. He raves like a man in love about this Annette. How old is she? Is she pretty? Does she love him? Will she be rich? Is that a vein I could work to profit? I don't intend to throw away the shadow of a chance. An age seems to have passed since last night. But what," he cried suddenly, "if all my labour is being thrown away--what if I am following a will-o'-the-wisp?"