It took two of us to carry it, and when we got down with it we saw Mark outside staring at the little bridge. We stared, too. It was about two feet wide, and maybe twenty feet long, all in one span. The far end of it connected with a board sidewalk just as it did on our end.
“Fetch a saw,” says Mark.
Binney found one inside and Mark began sawing in two the timbers at the far end. He stopped and motioned to us.
“Scatter around and keep m-moving,” says he. “Go as if you were l-looking for something. I want to chase away Mr. Mysterious Visitor so he can’t see what I’m doin’.”
I was curious to know what he was up to myself, but all the same I hurried off with the others and we scurried all over that side of the lake. We ran here and there and up and down and sideways. If there was anybody around I’ll bet we kept him moving so busy he didn’t have much time to see what Mark Tidd was up to. In about an hour Mark whistled our whistle which meant to come back, and back we went.
At first it didn’t look as if he’d been doing anything, but when I came to look close I saw he had cut through the timbers of the bridge on the shore end, and had driven a big staple in on each side. On the island end of the bridge he had cut through the timbers just the same, but had hitched them together again with a couple of whopping old hinges. I couldn’t see any sense to it. Mark grinned and pointed up. There, to one of the timbers supporting a balcony, was attached the pulley with the rope running through.
“See?” says he.
“No,” says I.
“D-drawbridge,” says he. “Every citadel has ’em. In case of attack we hitch the rope to the staples on the other end of the b-b-bridge and yank. Up comes the bridge. There’s t-twenty feet of water, and deep water, too, between us and the enemy.”
“We won’t ever be able to lift it,” says I.