An Interesting Failure.
One of the rifts was crossed in the dim twilight, another was avoided by making a circuit, and another by walking along its edge till it narrowed sufficiently for them to spring across, and after one of these bold leaps, Smith, who bore the ladder, said to Wriggs,—
“Feel ’sposed to take to a noo line o’ life, messmate, if we ever gets back home?”
“Dunno. What sort?” growled Wriggs.
“Hacerybat and tumbler by appointment to her Majesty.”
“What d’yer mean, Tommy?”
“Why, arter this practice we can do anything: balancing on poles, crawling desprit places on ladders, hanging from ropes, and standing over nothing with yer eyes shut. Feel a tug, Billy, when we jumped that last bit?”
“Tug? No. I on’y felt as if I was a bit a’ iron, and there was a big loadstone down in the hole, trying to pull me in.”
“Well, that’s what I meant—a tug.”
“Bah! there’s only one kind o’ tug—a steam tug, and there’s none here for a man to feel.”