“Get down!”
“Are you right?”
“Yes.”
Hardock yielded very slowly for a while, and then stopped and raised himself again.
“What yer doing?”
“Getting out my knife. He’s lashed to the spell.”
“Oh!”
Gwyn’s hands were dripping wet, and, as he tried to force his right into his pocket, he had a hard struggle, for it stuck to the lining, the strain of his position helping to resist its passage. But at last he forced it in, to find to his horror that the knife was not in that pocket, and he had a terrible job to drag out his hand.
“Can’t get at my knife,” he panted.
“All right; have mine,” was growled, and Hardock took out and opened his own. “Here you are.”