“Trust him? Yes, of course. Stop a moment. Yes, I know.” Then thrusting my arms out—“Hold hard a minute, Bob,” I whispered. “Let me get hold of the rope and haul up the end.”
“What for, lad?”
“For us to draw in here and make fast, then you can stand in the bight like a stirrup.”
“Well, you are a wunner, Mr Dale, sir,” he replied. “Haul away, there’s plenty down below; I should never have thought of that.”
In a very few seconds I had pulled in the lower part of the rope by which he was swinging, got hold of the dripping end and passed it to Mr Frewen, letting the rest fall back like a big loop, but not so quietly as I could have wished. Then we hauled in slowly, till after a little management we had the bight so exactly adjusted that Bob Hampton’s feet rested upon it while we held the rope tight.
“Hah!” he whispered, with his face close to the cabin-window, “that rests my flippers. Mind, I’m going to ease off a bit now, but if you two slacken down I shall go, and there won’t be time to say good-bye.”
“You may trust us, Bob,” I said.
“Ay, ay, my lad, I will, and the least thing as you can do is to trust me and my mates.”
“I will, Bob, and I’m sure Mr Frewen will, but we couldn’t help thinking you were a traitor.”
“Course you couldn’t, lad. On’y nat’ral. But you see now as it was on’y make-believe.”