Again they stopped suddenly. The woven bridge, or flooring had broken at the edge and was dangling forty feet away. Mute with horror, the men stared paralyzed at the calamity.
“There’s no way to get over,” a gangster sobbed.
“Maybe we can chop our way through the roof,” one suggested. He caught the side of the natural wall and hauled himself up, but when his ax struck the roof it rang against solid stone. Besides the stuff upon which the fellow was braced, gave way, and he slid back with a howl of fear.
“That log wasn’t all rotten,” Lang declared. “Come on back and at least we can cut some of the vines, make it stronger and get out that way.”
“Yeh, en get pitched down with Red—”
“If you can think of anything better, suppose you get busy,” Lang snapped at him.
“All right, I’m comin.”
“Let them kids do the leadin’ this time,” Mills proposed, and without further ado the Flying Buddies were turned about and forced to head the march back.
“Give us a chance with our arms,” Jim urged.
“Nothing doing, you go ahead. If you slip we’ll haul you back.”