“Ain’t you the funny whopper, though! Here’s where I get up and fall off.”
With a quick, wiry contortion, Fortune hoisted himself erect and hugged the smooth, steep wall with both arms. A bushel of rock and débris went bounding downward from the shelf, booming and echoing into the depths. The bush went, too, and Fortune, in his absurd boots, was balanced on a slippery foothold, with a gulf below and a glassy wall overhead.
“Darned if I can savvy this!” he murmured. “I’m here yet, ain’t I?”
“Take my hand!” shouted Clancy.
This was something Fortune could not do. One reached down and the other reached up, but a foot gap separated their groping fingers.
“Splice out that arm about a foot, pard,” said Fortune, “and we’ll make it.”
“I’ll do it!” declared Clancy. “Hang on a minute longer!”
He drew back from the edge, hastily unbuckled the belt about his waist, removed it, buckled it once more, and then, clinging tightly to the leather loop, lowered it over the cliff.
The maneuver was successful. Fortune gripped the band of stout leather and Clancy, exerting a surprising amount of strength, dragged the chap below back over the brink and to safety.
“Blamed if you didn’t make it!” exclaimed Fortune, in a tone of surprise, as he squatted on the edge of the precipice. “Wouldn’t ’a’ believed it possible nohow. What’s your handle, pard?”