“Can you help me?”
“No: can’t move; if I do you’ll pull me over.”
There was a terrible silence for what seemed to be minutes, but they were moments of the briefest, before Vince spoke again.
“Can you hold on?”
Silence, broken by a peculiar rustling, and then Mike said: “I think so. I’ve got my hand wedged in a crack; but I can’t hold on long with my head down like this. Look sharp! Climb up.”
“Look sharp—climb up!” muttered Vince, as, raising his left hand, which had been holding on to a projection in the rock at his side, he reached up, and, trying desperately, he managed to get hold of the doubled-over fold at the bottom of his companion’s trouser, cramping his fingers over it, and getting a second good hold.
It does not seem much to read, but it took a good deal of his force out of him, and he lay still, panting.
“Pray look sharp,” came from the other side.
“Yes. Hold on,” cried Vince, as a horrible sensation began creeping through him, which he felt was preparatory to losing his nerve and falling: “I’m going to turn over.”
“No, no—don’t,” came faintly. “I can’t hold on.”