“Sure, old man, unless you can think of another way for getting it down.”
This was more than Clancy had bargained for. He had thought that about all he and Merry would have to do would be to walk down the cañon, cut off the end of the rope they were interested in, then stroll back to camp and examine the section of hemp at their leisure. But Merry, as usual, had considered the matter more thoroughly.
“I nearly had heart failure,” said Clancy, “when you made the climb yesterday. Pass it up, Chip. It’s just a spasm of curiosity on our part, anyhow. It would be rank foolishness for you to risk your neck because we’re curious as to how the rope happened to break.”
“I’ve a notion, Clan,” returned Merriwell soberly, “that this breaking of the rope reaches deeper than we imagine.”
“How so?”
“There may be a plot back of it.”
“A plot?” The color faded from Clancy’s homely face and left the freckles standing out in prominent blotches. “You don’t mean,” he gasped, “that there was a plot to—to kill Darrel?”
“I haven’t said so, and just now I don’t want to go on record as thinking of such a dastardly thing. All the same, though, I’ll have a look at the other end of that rope if it takes a leg.”
“If that’s the way you feel about it,” said Clancy, “you can bet a ripe persimmon I’m not going to let you hog all the dangerous work. Uncle Clancy will do the climbing this morning, and work up an appetite for breakfast.”
“Not much you don’t,” was Merriwell’s decided answer, as he flung off his coat and laid hold of the rope. “Recovering the rope was my idea, and I’m going up there, cut off what I need, and come back with it.”