With a mighty spring Oliver made the jump. Half way up he paused. Was he going to fail again? No; he clung fast, reached up overhead, and drew himself up into the gloom.
“All right!” he called back. “Throw me the stick and then perhaps I can help you up.”
Gus flung the firebrand as best he could. Oliver caught it and stuck it in a crevice.
“Now make the jump up the rocks and catch my hand,” he called down, and he leaned as far as possible over the edge.
Gus did so. Three times he failed. The fourth, Oliver caught his wrist, and a moment later, puffing and blowing, both stood on the edge of the pit, but on the side opposite to that where they had entered.
“Crickety! I don’t want to try any more such jumps!” panted Gus. “I’ll be out of wind for a month.”
“And I trust we don’t get into any more such holes,” laughed Oliver. “But the thing of it is, have we bettered ourselves by the movement?”
“That we can’t tell till we see where this passage leads to,” returned the other, pointing to a narrow opening in the rocks. “If that is only a blind we are as bad off as we ever were.”
“I think that if I were down here alone I would go mad,” said Oliver.