“That was truly noble of you,” I observed. “It reveals a beautiful side of your character which I had never suspected, Hawkins.”
“That'll do,” said the inventor shortly. “Are you going down first or shall I?”
“Do you propose to trust all that is mortal of yourself to that capricious little ladder again?”
“Certainly. What else?”
“I was thinking that it might be safer, if slightly less comfortable, to wait here until Patrick gets back. He could put up a ladder—a real, old-fashioned, wooden ladder—for us.”
“Yes, and when Patrick gets back those women will get back with him,” replied Hawkins heatedly. “Your wife's coming over here to tea.”
“Well?”
“Well, do you suppose I'm going to be found stuck up here like a confounded rooster on a weather vane?” shouted the inventor. “No, sir! You can stay and look all the fool you like. I won't. I'm going down now!”
Hawkins reached gingerly with one foot for a place on the ladder. I looked at him, wondered whether it would be really wicked to hurl him into space, and looked away again, in the direction of the woods.
My gaze traveled about a mile; and my nerves received another shock.