Fred saw that the dark form was dangling immediately below, and, without delay, he reached down and found a pair of hands which were clinging madly to a stout vine.
The vine was really giving way, and Davis instantly grasped both wrists of the imperiled lad.
"I've got him, boys!" he shouted, joyously. "Pull us up—pull us up! I can hold fast if you pull us up at once! He has hold of one of my hands now; he will not let go. Pull us up, and he will be saved!"
"Lay hold here!" shouted Hodge, grasping Davis by the shoulder. "Down on your faces, two of you, and clutch Merriwell the moment he is lifted far enough for you to grasp him. Work lively, now! Are you ready?"
"All ready," came the chorus.
"Then hoist away, lads, and up he comes!"
So, with a strong pull, the imperiled youth was dragged up over the brink to safety, falling prostrate and panting at the feet of his rescuers.
"Poor Bascomb!" exclaimed one of the boys. "I am afraid he is done for!"
"Not much!" panted the boy they had just saved. "But that was a mighty close call."
"What's this?" shrieked Fred Davis, dropping to his knees and staring into the face of the fellow he had helped to rescue. "This isn't Merriwell! It's Bascomb!"