“Right!” replied Dale; and a minute later he caught the rings of hemp thrown to him, and rapidly knotted the middle round Saxe, the end to his own waist; and as he knotted, click, click! chip, chip! went the ice-axe, deftly wielded by the guide, who with two or three blows broke through enough of the crust to make a secure footing while the ice flew splintering down the slope in miniature avalanches, with a peculiar metallic tinkling sound.
“Will there be much to cut?” said Dale.
“No, herr; only a step here and there to make us quite safe,”—and he chipped away again after a few steps, and broke in others with the toes of his boots.
“I say,” whispered Saxe, “suppose he slipped while he’s swinging that axe round, he’d drag us both down too.”
“And by the same argument, if you or I slipped, we should snatch him from his place.”
“Yes; that’s what I thought.
“That would only be in a very extreme case; and you may as well learn your mountaineer’s lesson at once. When we are roped together, and one slips, he generally saves himself by rapidly sticking the sharp pick of his axe into the snow. He gives the others ample warning by this that something is wrong before the jerk and strain come upon the rope.”
“And what do they do?”
“Drive their ice-picks right into the snow, hang back against the slope, and tighten the rope from one to the other. So that generally, instead of a fall, there is only a short slip. Do you understand!”
“Yes, I think so.”