“He can’t do it, Mr Dan,” he chuckled. “You’re the chap to go up. You show him how to do it.”
“You hold your tongue. Speak when you’re spoken to,” said Barnett fiercely; and the old man chuckled the more as Barnett turned to John Grange.
“Now then, are you afraid to go up? Because if so, say so, and I’ll do it.”
John Grange glanced at the bailiff, and then stooped and picked up the coil of rope, passed it over his shoulder, and then seized the saw. He mounted the ladder, and clinging to the tree, stood on the last round, and then climbing actively, mounted the remaining ten feet to where he could stand upon a branch and attach the rope to the stump, pass the end over a higher bough and lower it down to the others. Then rolling his sleeves right up to the shoulder, he began to cut, the keen teeth of the saw biting into the soft, mahogany-like wood, and sending down the dust like sleet.
It was a good half-hour’s task to cut it through, but the sturdy young fellow worked away till only a cut or two more was necessary, and then he stopped.
“Ready below?” he said, glancing down.
“All right!” cried Ellis. “Cut clean through, so that it does not splinter.”
“Yes, sir,” shouted Grange; and he was giving the final cuts, when for some reason, possibly to get the rope a little farther along, Barnett gave it a sharp jerk, with the effect that the nearly free piece of timber gave way with a sharp crash, just as John Grange was reaching out to give the last cut.
Cedar snaps like glass. Down went the block with a crash to the extent the rope would allow, and there swung like a pendulum.
Down, too, went Grange, overbalanced.