“Hadn’t I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?”
“What’s the good o’ your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I’ll go; and, as I said afore, if it bears me, it’ll bear you.”
“But, if it breaks, what shall I say to little Sally?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go near her if I was you, Mas’ Don. She might take on, and then it wouldn’t be nice; or she mightn’t take on, and that wouldn’t be nice. Hist! What’s that?”
“Can’t hear anything, Jem.”
“More can I. Here, shake hands, lad, case I has a tumble.”
“Don’t, don’t risk it, Jem,” whispered Don, clinging to his hand.
“What! After making the rope! Oh, come, Mas’ Don, where’s your pluck? Now then, I’m off; and when I’m down safe, I’ll give three jerks at the line, and then hold it steady. Here goes—once to be ready, twice to be steady, three times to be—off!”
Don’s heart felt in his mouth as his companion grasped the rope tightly, and let himself glide down the steep tiled slope, till he reached the edge over the gutter; and then, as he disappeared, dissolving—so it seemed—into the gloom, Don’s breath was held, and he felt a singular pain at the chest.
He grasped the rope, though, as he sat astride at the lower edge of the opening; and the loosely twisted hemp seemed to palpitate and quiver as if it were one of Jem’s muscles reaching to his hands.