“Yes.”
“That’s your sort. I’m coming now.”
Jem began to whistle as he lowered himself over the edge of the precipice, a few feet to Don’s right; and directly after he began to sing merrily,—
“‘There was a man in Bristol city,
Fol de rol de riddle-lol-de-ri.
And that’s the first o’ this here ditty,
Fol de rol de-riddle-lol-de-ri.’
“Say, Mas’ Don, ’tarn’t so bad, after all.”
“It’s terrible, Jem!” panted Don, “Can we do it?”
“Can we do it? Ha, ha, ha!” cried Jem. “Can we do it? Hark at him! We’re just the boys as can do it. Why, it arn’t half so bad as being up on the main-top gallant yard.
“‘Fol de rol de-riddle-lol-de-ri.’”
“Don’t make that noise, Jem, pray.”
“Why not, my lad? That’s your sort; try all the roots before you trust ’em. I’m getting on splen—”