“And if it breaks—”
“Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don’t like is, s’pose you break.”
“I shall go first, and you can try afterwards.”
“No, no, Mas’ Don; let me try first.”
Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken.
As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances.
“Don’t do it, Mas’ Don. It’s impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let’s climb up again; it’s the only chance; and if we can’t get to the village in time, why, it arn’t our fault. No, my lad, don’t!”
As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space.
Jem Wimble uttered a low groan.