“Lost the other coming up the rope. This one is no good either. What’s left of it is just a mass of soaking pulp.”
Then she laughed softly as she brushed some spruce needles from her knees and picked a malicious little bit of flint from the palm of one hand. Her wet skirt was in ribbons. She saw that her stockings were a mass of ladders now, and she had a suspicion that her knickers were torn. But what did such trifles matter when one was bent upon a great achievement?
“Pretty bad,” she admitted and stood up on one foot. “Hand me my slicker, please. This rig is beyond repair—that will keep some of the wind out. Gee, it’s chilly!”
“And wet,” he added grimly, as he helped her into the coat. “Sorry to have to remind you, Dorothy, but we’ve got to be on our way, again.”
“I don’t think I can go any further, Bill.”
He knew this to be a candid statement of fact, not a complaint.
“But we must, Dorothy. They are coming after us, you know.”
“Not up this cliff! Unless, you mean—” her voice was troubled, “the rope! Could you slide down ours and untie that from the bushes, then shin up again?”
“I could, but it isn’t necessary. They aren’t coming that way.”
“Is there another way?”