“Gwyn! Gwyn! Gwyn!” shouted Joe, as he leaned over the wall and gazed down, but there were only hollow reverberations in reply.
“It’s no good, my lad,” said Hardock, bitterly. “Who’d ha’ thought of that rope failing as it did? Good sound rope as it be.”
“But you are not going to give up, and do nothing?” cried Joe, frantically.
“What is us to do then?” said the man, with a groan. “Let me down, I tell you.”
“Nay; it would be too bad, I won’t do that.”
“Then go down yourself.”
“How? Can you hold me, and haul me up? That’s madder still. He’s gone, my lad, he’s gone; and we can’t do nothing to help him.”
“Run, run for help. I’ll stay here and hold the rope. He may be insensible and catch hold of it yet.”
“Ay, he may,” said the man, meaningly; “but folk don’t do that sort o’ thing, my lad. Nay; it’s o’ no use to struggle over it. He’s a dead and goner, and you and me’s got to face it.”
“Face it!” groaned Joe, letting his head go down on the top of the wall. “Face it! How can I ever face Mrs Pendarve again?”