It soon became evident that this second person, whoever he was, had a serious time in climbing up the rope. He frequently paused as if resting, and this fact led the lad to feel more hopeful than ever that it was his old friend drawing near.
When it became apparent that he was near the top, the curiosity of Fred became so great that he drew himself forward, and, peering down the black throat of the cave, asked, in a whisper:
“I say, Mickey, is that you? Speak, if it is, or give a little whistle.”
“Be the powers, but I’m so tired I’m spaachless, wid not even the strength to let out a whistle.”
This established the identity of the climber beyond all question, and the words were hardly uttered when the familiar face of the Irishman appeared.
He was exceedingly tired, and the lad reached his hand down to assist him out. It was at this juncture that the Apache, who had run against the fist of Mickey O’Rooney, recovered, and seeing his foe in the act of vanishing, gave a whoop of alarm to his companions, caught up his rifle and fired away. The hasty aim alone prevented a fatal result, the bullet clipping the clothing of the Irishman.
“Fire away, ye spalpeens, for all the good it may do ye,” called out the Irishman, who at this moment clambered out of range and sank down upon the ground.
“Begorrah, I’m as tired as Jim O’Shaughnessey after his friendly match with his wife,” gasped Mickey, speaking shortly and rapidly, as best he could, while he leaned over upon his elbow, until he could regain his strength and wind.
It required but a short time, when he reached his hand to the lad, and shook it for the third or fourth time, smiling at the same time in his old jolly way, as he rose rather unsteadily upon his pins.
“I’ll have to wait a while till the kink gets out of me legs, before I give ye the Donnybrook jig, but I make the engagement wid ye, and the thing is down for performance, do ye mind that? And now, me laddy, we must thravel. Are ye hungry?”