“Then, here you have it. I just make a knot like this about your chesty, so as it don’t grow tight and can’t slip. That’s your sort. How’s that?”
As he spoke, he quickly fastened the end of the rope about the boy’s breast, tested the knot and then lifted Gwyn by it.
“Now, if you stick the hammer in your waistband, and have hold of the rope above your head with one hand to ease the strain, you’ll go down like a cork, only keep yourself clear of the side.”
“Mind and don’t turn and roast, Ydoll,” cried Joe; “but you’d better let me go.”
“Next time. Ready?” said Gwyn.
“Ay.”
“Then over I go.”
As if fearing to hesitate, the boy got over the low wall and stood on the narrow edge of the old, crumbling, fern-hung shaft, and the next moment he was being lowered down, Joe turning a little faint from excitement as the upturned face disappeared, and he watched the rope glide through the man’s bony hands.
“How far are you going to let him down?” he said, anxiously.