West pointed to a rift half-full of wiry-looking shrubs mingled with ferns, which ran up the rocky wall of the gully diagonally.
“Think you can do it?”
“Yes, it’s easier than it looks. Let’s try!”
“Right!” said Ingleborough. “Up you go!”
West waded across to the side, slinging his rifle as he went, then pulling his hat on tightly, he reached up as high as he could, and drew himself up a foot or two. Then, carefully taking advantage of the angles and edges of projecting rocks for his feet and getting hand-hold of the tough shrubs, he was soon up twenty feet above the rushing stream.
“Come along!” he said. “It’s not bad climbing!”
“Matter of opinion,” replied Ingleborough, “but here goes!” and he began to mount, while West went on.
“Oh yes,” he said, “it’s all right! Why, it puts one in mind of the Lady—I say, lad, ugh!—that was slippy!”
“Hold on then!” cried West excitedly, for one of Ingleborough’s feet glided over the edge of a stone, which yielded, and he was left hanging by his hands, to strive to get a footing.
“Get out!” said Ingleborough, panting. “That’s better. Just as if I shouldn’t hold on! Think I wanted a cold bath?”