“If a fellow could get over that first stretch of twenty or twenty-five feet,” mused Merriwell, studying the wall, “he would have tolerably clear sailing from that point to the top shelf. There are plenty of bushes and projections to help in the climbing, and the wall has a bit of a slope in the right direction. By Jove!” he suddenly exclaimed, “I believe I see a way to make it.”
“Don’t take any chances, Chip,” urged Ballard anxiously. “The foot of the wall is covered with stones, and it would be a bad place to take a drop.”
“It would be a drop too much,” punned Clancy, “and you know what that does to a fellow, Chip.”
“I don’t intend to take a drop,” answered Merriwell, walking down the cañon for about twenty feet and then turning directly toward the cliff.
At that point the inward slope of the wall was not so pronounced, and there was a fissure, with a projecting lower lip, angling across the face of the rocks, its upper end clearing the bad bit of wall under the shelf which it was necessary to gain.
“Going to try to climb up that crack, Chip?” yelled Ballard.
“Why not?” was the cool response. “It leads to a place where climbing is easy.”
“Stop it!” whooped Ballard. “You’re crazy to think of such a thing! You’ll tumble off the rocks just as sure as the world.”
“Come on back, Chip!” called Clancy. “The pesky old ball isn’t worth it.”
“Keep your shirts on, both of you,” was the calmly confident reply. “I’m not such a fool as to risk my neck for a five-dollar ball.”