“Get out! Go on, you old humbug, or I’ll get a pin out of my waistcoat and give you the spur.”
There was no response.
“Do you hear, old Jolly-wet? I say, you know, this isn’t the sort of place for playing larks. Wait till we’re up, and I’ll give you such a warming!”
Then the chill of horror came back, for Joe said in a whisper, whose tones swept away all possibility of his playing tricks,—
“I’m not larking. I can’t stir.”
“I tell you you are larking,” cried Gwyn, fiercely. “Such nonsense! Go on up, or I’ll drive a pin into you right up to the head.”
The cold chill increased now, and Gwyn shuddered, for Joe said faintly,—
“Do, please; it might give me strength.”
The vain hope that it might be all a trick was gone, and Gwyn was face to face with the horror of their position. He too looked down, and there was the platform, with the water splashing and glittering in the sunshine as it struck upon the rock; and he knew that no help could come from that direction, for Hardock was at the pump in the shaft. He looked up to the edge of the cliff, but no one was there, for the people were all gathered about the top of the mine, and were not likely to come and look over and see their position. If help was to come to the boy above him, that help must come from where he stood; and, with the recollection of his own peril when he was being hauled up by the rope, forcing itself upon him, he began to act with a feeling of desperation which was ready to rob him of such nerve as he possessed.
A clear and prompt action was necessary, as he knew only too well, and, setting his teeth hard together, he went on up without a word, step by step, as he leaned back to the full stretch of his arms, and reached to where he could just force his feet, one on either side of his companion’s, the spell of the ladder just affording sufficient width, and then pressing Joe close against the rounds with his heavily-throbbing breast, he held on in silence for a few moments, trying to speak, but no words would come.