“Nothing to fasten it to.”
“Soon get over that,” said Vince; and, taking out the iron bar and the hammer, he found a crack in the rock directly, into which he drove the narrow edge till it was perfectly firm, the roof just overhead echoing the blows of the hammer so rapidly that in a short time it sounded as if a dozen smiths were at work.
“Stop a moment,” cried Mike, as he held the light, and Vince began to tie the end of the rope to the strong iron peg he had formed.
“What for?”
“Suppose when we get down we want the rope for another place, what should we do if we leave it here?”
Vince took the lanthorn and held it out before him, so that he could examine the trough-like slope.
“I shouldn’t like to trust myself to slide down here,” he said; “but there’s nothing to prevent our climbing up. Let’s double the rope and hook the middle over the bar; then, when we’re down, we can pull one end and get it free.”
This was done, and, tying the lanthorn to his neck by means of his kerchief, Mike secured the doubled rope and let himself down, his companion soon after seeing him standing some thirty feet lower.
A minute later Vince was by his side, and they looked about them, but there was nothing fresh to see. The roof was only a foot above their heads. The width of the place averaged six or seven feet, and there was this to encourage them—no branches occurred to form puzzling labyrinths. If they had been overtaken by darkness there was nothing to prevent their feeling their way back into the sunshine. So, growing accustomed to the place, familiarity, if it did not breed contempt, made them cooler and more ready to go on descending over similar obstacles to those they had previously encountered, till all at once Mike stopped short, and held up the lanthorn beneath which he peered.
“What is it?” said Vince anxiously.