Meanwhile Bigley Uggleston was coming along at a lumbering trot, and as soon as he was within hearing I shouted to him:
“What are you going to do with that rope?” And now for the first time I noticed that he was carrying a long iron bar balanced in his right hand.
Big did not answer, but came panting on.
“There, I told you so!” cried Bob; “didn’t I say so?”
“I don’t care if you did,” I retorted; and just then our companion panted up to us and threw himself down, breathless with his exertions.
“What did you fetch the rope for?” I cried eagerly.
“To”—puff—“throw it over”—puff—“the big stone”—puff—“up atop, same”—puff—“as Bob Chowne said”—puff—“last year.”
“There!” I cried triumphantly, turning on Bob.
I was sorry I had spoken directly after, for Bob tightened his lips and half shut his eyes as he rose slowly to his feet, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to move off.
“Here, what are you going to do?” I cried.