“What do you want?” asked one of the men, in a Spanish patois, after the handcar had been brought to a standstill.
“We want a rope,” said Hockley, without understanding the man.
The man shrugged his shoulders and so did his companions. Then Hockley pointed to a rope which laid coiled up on the car. At this the native smiled, then looked perplexed.
By this time Professor Strong was hurrying in the direction. He could speak the language fairly well and soon made them understand that somebody was in a hole and had to be hauled out. Then he held a silver piece out and the native, who was a sort of foreman, took it instantly. The handcar was taken from the tracks and all the workmen followed the professor to the hill in front of the cliff.
When Mark was brought up and placed on the grass, it was found that his ankle was so swollen that walking was out of the question. He was wet and dirty from head to foot and the others did what they could toward cleaning him off. The handcar men could not remain and hurried away as soon as they could get back their rope.
“I don’t know what you’re going to do with me,” said Mark, ruefully. “I’d walk if I could but I can’t and that’s all there is to it.”
“Does the ankle still hurt when you are resting?” asked the professor kindly.
“No, only when I try to stand on it.”
“Then rest where you are and I will see what can be done toward getting a horse or some other animal to carry you.”
Professor Strong started off toward the mountain road between La Guayra and Caracas, and the others gathered about Mark, bathing his ankle with water from a nearby pool and doing all they could otherwise to make him comfortable.