“But there seems to be a way up to a shelf of rock, father,” I said; “close there by the point.”
“Ah!” he cried.
“But no higher.”
“Never mind,” he said sharply. “Go on first. Quick!”
It was quite necessary to be quick, for the water was already lapping among the stones at the foot of the chink and mounting fast.
“Yes, I see,” said my father. “There! Lose no time. Up with you, Uggleston. You next, Chowne. Climb your best, boys, and help one another.”
The climb was awkward and steep, but possible, and by one giving another a back and then crouching on some ledge and holding down his hand to the others, we got on up and up, till the big ledge was reached, and proved to be some twenty feet long by about nine broad in the middle, but going off to nothing at either end, while it went in right under a tremendous projecting portion of the cliff, that looked as if it would crumble down and crush us at any moment.
“Hah!” ejaculated my father breathlessly, as he partly dragged himself up, and was partly dragged by us on to the shelf. “What a place! Why, we must be at least eighty feet above the shingle.”
“As much as that, father?”
“Yes, my boy; so mind all of you. No rolling off. Now, then, is there any other way of getting higher, and so on to the slope?”