It was a bitter lesson in his want of power, for, partly from his position there on the extreme edge of the terrible precipice, partly from its being a task for a muscular man, he found out he could not stir Gwyn in the least, only hold him tighter against the rock, pressing the great knot of the rope into the boy’s chest.
“Up with him, lad!” shouted Hardock from where he stood straining the rope tight. “Up with him—right over on to the rock!”
Joe’s eyes dilated and he gazed horror-stricken into the eyes of his comrade, who hung there perfectly inert, while just overhead three great grey gulls wheeled round and round, uttering their screams, and looking as if they expected that the next minute the boy would have fallen headlong on to the stones beneath.
“Come, look sharp!” shouted Hardock; “this rope cuts. Up with him quick!”
“Can—can you get hold of anything and—and help?” panted Joe at last, hoarsely.
Gwyn stared at him as if he had heard him speak, but did not quite comprehend what he said.
“Quick, Ydoll! Do you hear! Do something to help. Get hold.”
This seemed to rouse the boy, who slowly loosened his hold of the rope, and then, with a quick spasmodic action, caught hold of the collar of Joe’s jacket on either side.
“Now—your feet,” said Joe, in a harsh whisper. “Try and find foothold.”
“Can you—hold?” said Gwyn, faintly.